Caressing Velvet Night

 

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

Pockets

My pockets patched
and frayed and fringed
from swallowing shells
I picked up on the shore,
from storing shooting stars
before they hit the ground,
from stowing songs
I hummed to birds in flight
above my head,
my pockets will stay with me
although my jeans are gone.

 

 

 

 

Another day

of wildflowers that hide
in fragrant grass,
of brilliant sun that melts
the winter chill of heart,
of children speeding
to the creek to fish
for summer tales,
of gathering grey
that darkens sky
then laughs
and dissipates.

Another day my head
complains of fickle
barometer.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes I just stare

at dead things,
trees with no leaves
in the middle of Spring,
water that stalls in the river,
no movement, no fish.
Dead things bring comfort
in stillness and silence.
Nothing moves fast
when it’s dead.

 

 

 

 

 

Cemetery Deer

You watch us, dark-eyed,
gathered ‘round a hole,
you know there’s nothing
there that’s good to eat.
You sniff the air when
one decides to linger after
all the others leave.

At night you dance
with spirits of the ones
we buried here.
Your antlers flash with
lightning from another
world to guide the dead
to their eternal rest.

 

 

 

 

Cloud Gazing

Some lie in grass
to watch the clouds pass,
they name the shapes
clouds make
as winds change the sky.
I lie on my stomach
and watch the clouds
ripple in river and sun.
I poke at the water
with finger or stick,
to change what I see
before winds change the sky.

 

 

 

 

Sun Pour

The clouds are confused.
They pour sun rays
onto the ground
instead of rain.

 

 

 

 

 

Eating on Time

People come at noon each day
to feed the duck flotilla.
They know the ducks
will dock and quack
when bells chime
that it’s time.
The ducks know bells
remind the folks
to bring some fine delights.
You have to wonder
who’s the trainer,
people, ducks, or bells.

 

 

 

 

A park bench

listens without judgment
to the secrets shared upon his lap.
He won’t divulge what he has heard
to sun or moon or stars.

 

 

 

 

 

The river

doesn’t need alarms or maps
to get where it needs to go.
It flows from high to low.
It knows its destination
is the ocean.
It bears its burdens
without complaint.
It doesn’t care
what people think.
The river doesn’t
wonder why it is.

Lord, make me a river.

 

 

 

 

 

The river forks

and I must choose
which way to row.
My craft is pulled
towards willow drinking
sunlit ripples,
I don’t need my oars.

 

 

 

 

 

Lamplight

Lamps light up darkness,
but still, I feel queasy
whenever the day turns to night.
Lamplight casts shadows,
shadows where fears hide,
where monsters emerge
I can’t reason away.

 

 

 

 

 

Lamps

Our eyes as lamps of the body
light our steps through indecision.
Years of poor choices dim the glow.
We caress velvet night,
unaware we've blown out the candle.

 

 

 

 

Cranky

My computer is cranky.
Sixteen days of thunderstorms,
it fears the Big Delete.
If its data disappears,
it knows that I would
trade it in for one
that is much better.
We both look up
when lightning strikes.
We both look at each other.
It grumbles, but it knows
it’s time to be shut off again.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

The sun paints

the day in golds, greens, and blues.
She whispers, ignore the clouds
threatening rain, they’re liars.

—Nolcha Fox

_________________

—Medusa, with our thanks to Nolcha Fox for painting us pictures of early fall with her golds and greens and blues. Here is a photo of Nolcha's alter-ego:

 

 

 

 —Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Lara Gularte will be
holding an Ekphrastic workshop in
Placerville tonight; ask her (larag@aol.com)
if it’s too late to sign up.
For info 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!

 

LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope:

(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

 

 Furtive fox in the woods:
half dog, half cat, and
slippery-sly like, well,
a fox…