When Will You Have Time?

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Roberta Beach Jacobson
—Poetry by Roberta Beach Jacobson,
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Sayanı Mukherjee, Joe Nolan
and Gabriel Bates
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Roberta Beach Jacobson and
Joe Nolan

—Piggy Photo by Tom Goldstone

MAMA
—Roberta Beach Jacobson, Indianola, IA

Sunday dinner
draws to a chaotic close
so now
she heads to the kitchen
to clean up the family mess

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Roberta Beach Jacobson

 

BALLS THAT MATTER
—Roberta Beach Jacobson

Snowballs and beach balls
  tennis balls or basketballs
    golf balls, goofballs
      softballs & hardballs

Soccer balls or stress balls
  fireballs & footballs
    fast balls, foul balls
       billiard balls and bowling balls

Cricket balls, volleyballs
  rugby balls and baseballs
    . . . all important balls
Alas, not yours

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Roberta Beach Jacobson

 

WHERE’S THE MONEY?
—Roberta Beach Jacobson
 
banks
keep our paychecks safe
until
bill collectors show up
with their greedy hands

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of
Roberta Beach Jacobson

 

EXERCISING MY FASHION SENSE
—Roberta Beach Jacobson

I spin
regularly at the gym
wearing
my torn workout outfits
always with mismatched socks

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

ALMOST
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I sew my body where it tore,
I’m almost back together.
I ripped it walking by the entrance
to the workshop of my life.
If there’s a test to get it right,
I’m pretty sure I failed.
I’d almost bet I’d have to take
this workshop once again.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

WORKSHOP
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Workshop, workshy, what’s to buy,
except the crafty hand or eye,
maybe sweat or perhaps dry,
it’s time my ego had a try,
ergonomics, not a sigh?
But proof of useful, ending nigh,
so if alive, then do or die;
custom, usage, still I’m spry,
tell us age, but don’t deny.

Make space for holiday, a break,
but holy day, for Christ’s sake,
holistic rest, winddown, take
the time to quell the snake,
whose hiss insinuates it’s fake
that grace is free, as by the lake,
when ethic tells us, earn your stake.
So shake a leg, thus he spake,
work or prodigal, party, cake.

Now workup worksheet, what’s been stirred,
this balance sheet, strange kingdom’s Word,
but work out how sustained, what’s heard,
for blurred, philosophy that erred—
and workmanlike is cancelled word—
when world thinks workout-fit preferred
and learning grace the more absurd.
So does it chime, or strike averred,
the wages bartered, or deferred?

So who has credit in this tale,
if there is here no love here for sale?
As one who’s frail and knows they fail,
the past path rubbish, litter trail,
back to the mall without retail—
is workaday still workable?
We may approach, hearty and hale,
but soon bail out as round us flail.
Sum human debt paid on the nail? 

 

 

 

—Photo by Tom Goldstone, Son of Tim

 

 

WHAT NONSENSE

—Stephen Kingsnorth

Hogs on rough cider—and before—
night on the tiles, all be it grass,
I fear the sow—seed of the week—
will have him roasted—what a bore.

I drank it as west country teen—
like clouded, wishy hogwash beer,
not knowing power beyond the sweet,
naïvety, teetotal youth.

But then if one’s a rescue pig
with troubled childhood, being poked,
a brittle, pig iron, outward steel,
poor preparation, stable life.

Add insult then to injury,
our boys in blue too pigs referred,
as if the swine are breathalysed,
some selfie test, no phone involved.

Who’s in the middle now, one thinks
and does it snore or snort the breath?
Despite MacDonald and his farm
I never herd such beasts to oink.

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

AUGUST
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

Teal blue of my fairy strands
The murderous blues
The hauntings of sun-dried cuts
Kill your belongings
It's August
They said
But I'm still
Hooking my drunken soul
My red-wined Coolings
Can't
Your own dealing
Homicides across globe
My spirits a childish grimace
Enjoy your youth
Sip be merry
A good-natured wife
Milk of human kindness
Halted on
London bridges
Cycling through ages
Your white-coloured tie
Pattern of your very being
Still my child's sweater
Warm sipping
A home-cooked meal
But
The city's on fire
A Phoenix Soul
Soon a torpedo glory
Sky high nebulae
I screamed through
Be drunken white
Your own patterns
Still it's August
They said
And My. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

CATS CAN AND CAN’T
(compared to dogs)
—Joe Nolan, Stocktton, CA
 
Cats can’t run in marathons,
Unlike running-dogs.
Cats can’t even run a mile—
They get out of breath.
But cats can jump
A six-foot fence
By bouncing off a wall.
Cats are not
The same as dogs,
After all.

Cats just eat
Until they’re full.
They won’t eat after that.

Dogs will eat
Until they’re round,
Roll-over and
Look fat.
 
Cats sometimes ignore you,
Avoid you and look peeved.
Maybe they
Just tolerate
And do not really need ________(you?)

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

PLASTIC JUNK

—Joe Nolan

The world is full

    1. Of little plastic pieces
That wear out
Leaving other larger things
To dump as junk
That could be repaired,
But little plastic
Replacement parts
Are hard to find.

    2. Of little plastic bottles
That pile up
In garbage piles
In our dumps,
Along our curbs—
Our throwaways.

    3. Of macro plastic people
We can’t trust,
Who rule over us.

If we haul
Them all away
Where could we
Put them
Where they’d do no harm
And no one would ever notice?

Macro trash
Just gets ug-li-er
Over time.
We shouldn’t be reminded
Whom we voted for
Or someone else did.

 

 

 

 Must be feeding time!

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

EXISTENCE
—Gabriel Bates, Tiffin, OH

I think my life would be
a lot easier
if I didn't feel the need
to create something.

It's like there's this thing
in the back of my mind
that's constantly
gnawing at me.

I wish I could get rid of it
for good.

Because I'd rather be
like everyone else.

Wake up,
make it through the day,
go to sleep,
and do it all over again.

I wouldn't need
some kind of title.

I wouldn't have to be
a writer,
or a musician,
or a painter,
or anything.

I could just be some guy
on his way home from work,
admiring the sunset
and wondering
what's for dinner tonight.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

THWACK!
—Gabriel Bates

That's the sound I hear
as I'm smoking a cigarette
on my balcony.

I look around to find
a sparrow
fluttering sideways,
trying to regain
his composure
after hitting
my living room window.

He finally lands
on a nearby roof
and jerks his head
from side to side
as if he's making sure
no one saw
what happened.

Then he flies
off into the distance.

"Damn,"
I say to myself,
"I wish I could take a hit
as well as he does."

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WHEN WILL YOU HAVE TIME?
—Joe Nolan

Can you feel a drifting cloud
When it’s near your skin?

The buzzing of a beehive
Underneath your grin?

Hear a dripping melon
Too full of juice within?

When will you have time
To taste, to feel, to listen?

_____________________

Shrinking wages, shrinking perks—Carl Sandburg would be appalled at what is happening to our work force these days. But still we celebrate those who work for us:

After the farmer, the miner, the shop man, the
factory hand, the fireman and the teamster,
Have all been remembered with bronze memorials,
Shaping them on the job of getting all of us
Something to eat and something to wear...

—Excerpted from “Ready To Kill” by Carl Sandburg

* * *

Thanks to our contributors today for poems and pix, including those about our Labor Day Seed of the Week, “Workshop”. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. Stephen Kingsnorth's "What Nonsense" is in reference to Tim Goldstone's story yesterday about rogue pigs in his neighborhood that got drunk on fermented apples: see http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/09/on-this-rainy-star.html/. Both Tim and Stephen are living in Wales. Sounds like Welsh pigs are on the saucy side...

This weekend has always been an end to summer and the informal beginning of autumn, and the NorCal poetry scene seems to be revving up for a new year this week—Cal. Poet Laureate Lee Herrick will be in the Placerville area on Friday to help celebrate the new El Dorado County Poet Laureate Stephen Meadows, for example. And next weekend, Sept. 8-10, will be particularly packed! Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about this and other future poetry 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.

Speaking of calendars, the Sept. issue of Poet News is available at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews/, loaded with news and resources and listings of events to be relished, thanks to Editor Pat Grizzell. Check it out.

And as always, Labor Day weekend means the annual Chalk It Up Art & Music Festival in Sacramento; see https://chalkitup.org AND/OR https://www.facebook.com/chalkitupsac/, or head on down there. It runs through today.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope:
I don’t like spiders, so
I won’t write about them—
not even the one spinning 

its lovely silver magic

 in our bathtub…