Where Are You?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Robert Fleming, Lewes, DE
—Poetry by Jon Wesick, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan, and
Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Robert Fleming, Stephen Kingsnorth,
and Joe Nolan
—Poetry by Jon Wesick, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan, and
Sayani Mukherjee
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Robert Fleming, Stephen Kingsnorth,
and Joe Nolan
CLUTTER
—Jon Wesick, Woburn, MA
She leaves her breasts on the counter
in front of the blender and microwave oven.
Her dark aureoles distract me
every time I carry bread to the toaster.
It’s always the same—
shapely thighs drying on the shower rod,
hips soaking in the sink.
She drops her navel on the bathroom floor
along with her wet towel,
piles lips and mouth with the dirty dishes,
and abandons her uvula on the dresser.
I need to clear the couch of slender calves
and smooth shoulders to watch TV.
At bedtime something wet tickles my ear,
her tongue on my pillow.
—Jon Wesick, Woburn, MA
She leaves her breasts on the counter
in front of the blender and microwave oven.
Her dark aureoles distract me
every time I carry bread to the toaster.
It’s always the same—
shapely thighs drying on the shower rod,
hips soaking in the sink.
She drops her navel on the bathroom floor
along with her wet towel,
piles lips and mouth with the dirty dishes,
and abandons her uvula on the dresser.
I need to clear the couch of slender calves
and smooth shoulders to watch TV.
At bedtime something wet tickles my ear,
her tongue on my pillow.
Man’s Kitchen
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Robert FlemingALCOHOLIC BREAKFAST
—Jon Wesick
Secrets
between the pancakes, recriminations
in the coffee. She pours suspicion
in a juice glass. He spreads excuses
on the toast, passes the butter dish of abuse.
Eggs stare in awkward silence.
Heaping home fries of denial
—Jon Wesick
Secrets
between the pancakes, recriminations
in the coffee. She pours suspicion
in a juice glass. He spreads excuses
on the toast, passes the butter dish of abuse.
Eggs stare in awkward silence.
Heaping home fries of denial
Alcoholic Breakfast
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Robert Fleming
SHE THOUGHT SHE WAS A SUNFLOWER
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
She always faced the sun and glowed,
tracing its path through the day.
Birds, bees, and butterflies
trailed behind her
to sip the sweet nectar of her smile.
The wind wooed her, whispered
of love everlasting and promised
he never would stray.
She knew how he wandered
and flirted with others to push them
and crush them and call himself winner.
The season was ending,
she went home to mother,
and left his pretenses behind.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
She always faced the sun and glowed,
tracing its path through the day.
Birds, bees, and butterflies
trailed behind her
to sip the sweet nectar of her smile.
The wind wooed her, whispered
of love everlasting and promised
he never would stray.
She knew how he wandered
and flirted with others to push them
and crush them and call himself winner.
The season was ending,
she went home to mother,
and left his pretenses behind.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
BEAMS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
The good news, not a summer’s day,
when face to warmth, sunflower crop
surrounds us, bowing to their god,
their trope, like ours, towards the light.
Better, pathetic fallacy,
when wet, creep cold is gnawing bones,
the saddest is the message heard
with grimmest path ahead of us,
yet by us stands one loyal friend.
The brightest laughter, in the dark,
when storms are raving at our hearts,
but knowing all is well in love,
the essence of a hug, not warmth,
but arms around us, sharing pain.
If only found where golden blooms,
when life is roses, bearing thorns,
we have not met the living art
seen when god cries with a child.
A heart that pulses in the beam
should rather find the cords that tie
to crossbeams stood, Golgotha’s sky.
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
The good news, not a summer’s day,
when face to warmth, sunflower crop
surrounds us, bowing to their god,
their trope, like ours, towards the light.
Better, pathetic fallacy,
when wet, creep cold is gnawing bones,
the saddest is the message heard
with grimmest path ahead of us,
yet by us stands one loyal friend.
The brightest laughter, in the dark,
when storms are raving at our hearts,
but knowing all is well in love,
the essence of a hug, not warmth,
but arms around us, sharing pain.
If only found where golden blooms,
when life is roses, bearing thorns,
we have not met the living art
seen when god cries with a child.
A heart that pulses in the beam
should rather find the cords that tie
to crossbeams stood, Golgotha’s sky.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth
SONSHINE
—Stephen Kingsnorth
We called it ‘bilge’, biology,
amoebic start, then tadpole, flea,
cork cambium and xylem, phloem,
and soon the phototropic turn.
Before unknown, except the frogs,
beware the dog or catch the itch,
bark furrowed tree trunk running rings,
fed stem of sunflower, smiley face.
I now know what and how perhaps,
and always where and when as child,
but never understood the why
until one day, moped heavy blue,
and saw so much determined life,
black wriggle tail, draught drinking tree,
the brightest yellow facing sun
and knew the son still shone on me.
—Stephen Kingsnorth
We called it ‘bilge’, biology,
amoebic start, then tadpole, flea,
cork cambium and xylem, phloem,
and soon the phototropic turn.
Before unknown, except the frogs,
beware the dog or catch the itch,
bark furrowed tree trunk running rings,
fed stem of sunflower, smiley face.
I now know what and how perhaps,
and always where and when as child,
but never understood the why
until one day, moped heavy blue,
and saw so much determined life,
black wriggle tail, draught drinking tree,
the brightest yellow facing sun
and knew the son still shone on me.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
SUNFLOWERS AT DAWN
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Silhouetted
Before the light of dawn,
Rows of bright sunflowers
Raise their heads and yawn,
Happy for sunlight
To break their paths
Between its rays,
As they bow and wave
To honor their new day,
In yellow, yellow,—brown,
Facing only one way,
They cannot turn around.
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Silhouetted
Before the light of dawn,
Rows of bright sunflowers
Raise their heads and yawn,
Happy for sunlight
To break their paths
Between its rays,
As they bow and wave
To honor their new day,
In yellow, yellow,—brown,
Facing only one way,
They cannot turn around.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
STASI
—Joe Nolan
Anyone who whispers
Might betray,
Whatever it was
He wasn’t supposed to say,
To listening ears
Or bugs
Under a table,
Where the secret service agencies
Installed
Listening devices,
Like telephones that called,
Somehow, were left off the hook,
Letting all
Your information
—Joe Nolan
Anyone who whispers
Might betray,
Whatever it was
He wasn’t supposed to say,
To listening ears
Or bugs
Under a table,
Where the secret service agencies
Installed
Listening devices,
Like telephones that called,
Somehow, were left off the hook,
Letting all
Your information
Fall into a book.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
of Joe Nolan
SALVATION
—Joe Nolan
Who visited you
The most?
In your times of trouble,
The Father, Son or Holy Ghost?
Who held your wounded head,
When you were nearly
All out-bled,
Bleeding onto a field?
Who supported your spirit,
When, in grief,
You were near to yield
Your soul unto the sun?
The Father, Ghost or Holy Son?
Who brought you
Into “The One”
That holds us all together?
Who saved you
With healing grace?
Who held you firm, in place,
And brought you back
From the brink of disgrace,
That comes to the self-undone,
The Father, Ghost or Holy Son?
—Joe Nolan
Who visited you
The most?
In your times of trouble,
The Father, Son or Holy Ghost?
Who held your wounded head,
When you were nearly
All out-bled,
Bleeding onto a field?
Who supported your spirit,
When, in grief,
You were near to yield
Your soul unto the sun?
The Father, Ghost or Holy Son?
Who brought you
Into “The One”
That holds us all together?
Who saved you
With healing grace?
Who held you firm, in place,
And brought you back
From the brink of disgrace,
That comes to the self-undone,
The Father, Ghost or Holy Son?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
DECEMBER-MAN
—Joe Nolan
December-man came breaking,
Sea-spray across the shore,
Where cold and wet
Could not be broken
And danger impelled us, more,
To climb upon rocks
And curse the sea
That took from us
Our liberty
And pressed us
Against the shore.
Confinement
By the oceans
That used to
Give us leave,
Under the weight
Of embargo—
Our oppressors
For to please.
—Joe Nolan
December-man came breaking,
Sea-spray across the shore,
Where cold and wet
Could not be broken
And danger impelled us, more,
To climb upon rocks
And curse the sea
That took from us
Our liberty
And pressed us
Against the shore.
Confinement
By the oceans
That used to
Give us leave,
Under the weight
Of embargo—
Our oppressors
For to please.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
of Joe Nolan
THE DIVINE-PREJUDICE
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
What a wonderful thing is luck?
I can't fathom its colossal impact on human affairs.
Not everyone could harvest the fruits of luck.
I wondered endlessly as to why the creator creates
them skimpily.
Why there is no equal diet of luck for every soul.
The creator owes an explanation for its
divine-prejudice
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
What a wonderful thing is luck?
I can't fathom its colossal impact on human affairs.
Not everyone could harvest the fruits of luck.
I wondered endlessly as to why the creator creates
them skimpily.
Why there is no equal diet of luck for every soul.
The creator owes an explanation for its
divine-prejudice
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
of Joe Nolan
AUTUMN
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Autumn passed over
My window blues
A cosmic palette of
Monographic silhouettes
A feathery carnival of
Hooded blasphemy
If you keep searching for
Answers
You fall down
Jugglers Metaphors Imagine
Just Imagine
Beyond the green above
A cosmic garden of
White blue diamonds
That Rains over
And Creates a mansion
Xanadu of my own fervent dreams
It's called mystical
A Rose-like luminous
Moon beamed white
Nemesis is necessary
You never grow
Until you discover your wings
A bright blue butterfly knife
Just imagination
Well keep on
Your blue ribbons
Your pink shoes
Attached scrapbooks of my
Kindergarten schemes
How fragile how beautiful
How magical place it is
Stars and shimmer
Sickness meant relief
You get Care you get Love
Still crossed a threshold
Surpassed the oceanic blaze
The hardness of mountains
The green monsoon wet
I was growing up
Could feel
The freshness the berries
The innuendos the forever
Opulence of your smile
How it hides behind
A rare diamond
We found
Finally
Crossed the threshold
And Autumn bid me a goodbye.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
It was upon a Lammas night,
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
Autumn passed over
My window blues
A cosmic palette of
Monographic silhouettes
A feathery carnival of
Hooded blasphemy
If you keep searching for
Answers
You fall down
Jugglers Metaphors Imagine
Just Imagine
Beyond the green above
A cosmic garden of
White blue diamonds
That Rains over
And Creates a mansion
Xanadu of my own fervent dreams
It's called mystical
A Rose-like luminous
Moon beamed white
Nemesis is necessary
You never grow
Until you discover your wings
A bright blue butterfly knife
Just imagination
Well keep on
Your blue ribbons
Your pink shoes
Attached scrapbooks of my
Kindergarten schemes
How fragile how beautiful
How magical place it is
Stars and shimmer
Sickness meant relief
You get Care you get Love
Still crossed a threshold
Surpassed the oceanic blaze
The hardness of mountains
The green monsoon wet
I was growing up
Could feel
The freshness the berries
The innuendos the forever
Opulence of your smile
How it hides behind
A rare diamond
We found
Finally
Crossed the threshold
And Autumn bid me a goodbye.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
It was upon a Lammas night,
When corn rigs are bonnie,
Beneath the moon’s unclouded light,
I held awa’ to Annie…
—Robert Burns, “The Rigs O’ Barley”
(https://www.robertburns.org/works/30.shtml/)
_____________________
Good morning, and many thanks to our contributors for today’s fine poems and photos! Last Tuesday, 8/1, was Lammas Day, a traditional beginning to Autumn, and Sayani Mukherjee has sent us an Autumn poem. (For more about Lammastide, go to https://www.almanac.com/fact/lammas-day-from-the-old-english-holiday/.) Our Seed of the Week was Sunflowers, late-summer bloomers that they are, so we have some poems about those, too. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
We started today with a collaboration of photos and poems: in 2019, during the Covid-19 pandemic, Robert Fleming and Jon Wesick met on Zoom on the Tuesday night Cobalt Poets open mic hosted by Rick Lupert. Their first work was a tribute to Jon’s love of wombats and Robert’s love of horror: a visual poem: “I sat bat, not wombat” was published by Dumpster Fire Press in Gods, Guns, Glory, and Greed. Medusa’s Kitchen is Jon and Robert’s second time working together, although they each have had poetry appear in the Kitchen at other times. Well done, fellas, and thanks! Medusa encourages collaborations.
NorCal poetry will present several readings and workshops this week; click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about such 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.
You may’ve noticed lately that LittleSnake has a Glimmer of Hope each day at the bottom of each post, images that I hope are positive take-aways to move ahead with every morning—for myself as well as for anyone else. Glimmers of hope are gifts we can give each other day after day after day—yes?—whether it’s poetry or sunlight or love in all its many shapes and forms. Someone who talks about glimmers is Rei Hance (https://www.facebook.com/reihance/). She says, "A glimmer is a tiny micro-moment of happiness; a sign of hope. Once you begin to look for them, they will start to appear everywhere." There is also a Glimmer of Hope Foundation which gives dolls to children with cancer; see it at https://www.facebook.com/Glimmerofhopefdn/.
Yes, I write these snippets. They're not "official" forms, just images I've snatched out of the air, trying to keep up my writing chops by celebrating the world around me...
_____________________
—Medusa
—Robert Burns, “The Rigs O’ Barley”
(https://www.robertburns.org/works/30.shtml/)
_____________________
Good morning, and many thanks to our contributors for today’s fine poems and photos! Last Tuesday, 8/1, was Lammas Day, a traditional beginning to Autumn, and Sayani Mukherjee has sent us an Autumn poem. (For more about Lammastide, go to https://www.almanac.com/fact/lammas-day-from-the-old-english-holiday/.) Our Seed of the Week was Sunflowers, late-summer bloomers that they are, so we have some poems about those, too. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
We started today with a collaboration of photos and poems: in 2019, during the Covid-19 pandemic, Robert Fleming and Jon Wesick met on Zoom on the Tuesday night Cobalt Poets open mic hosted by Rick Lupert. Their first work was a tribute to Jon’s love of wombats and Robert’s love of horror: a visual poem: “I sat bat, not wombat” was published by Dumpster Fire Press in Gods, Guns, Glory, and Greed. Medusa’s Kitchen is Jon and Robert’s second time working together, although they each have had poetry appear in the Kitchen at other times. Well done, fellas, and thanks! Medusa encourages collaborations.
NorCal poetry will present several readings and workshops this week; click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about such 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.
You may’ve noticed lately that LittleSnake has a Glimmer of Hope each day at the bottom of each post, images that I hope are positive take-aways to move ahead with every morning—for myself as well as for anyone else. Glimmers of hope are gifts we can give each other day after day after day—yes?—whether it’s poetry or sunlight or love in all its many shapes and forms. Someone who talks about glimmers is Rei Hance (https://www.facebook.com/reihance/). She says, "A glimmer is a tiny micro-moment of happiness; a sign of hope. Once you begin to look for them, they will start to appear everywhere." There is also a Glimmer of Hope Foundation which gives dolls to children with cancer; see it at https://www.facebook.com/Glimmerofhopefdn/.
Yes, I write these snippets. They're not "official" forms, just images I've snatched out of the air, trying to keep up my writing chops by celebrating the world around me...
_____________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Illustration
Courtesy of Joe Nolan
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!
shiny black beetle
lurks on the drainboard—
watermelon seed!