—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
THE FACE OF OCTOBER
We took a walk one brisk afternoon,
shuffling through brown, gold, and
amber leaves falling around us.
As I bent to collect some, you joined me.
We selected the bright ones, still alive with shine.
We stopped at a market for food, including
the biggest, perfectly round pumpkin they had.
Once home, we set to work on it.
You sliced off the top, leaving its stem intact.
Then we both ambitiously dug out the pulp.
The juicy pulp would be for my pies.
I carried it off to the kitchen in a large bowl.
You took the pumpkin shell to hose off and carve.
In the kitchen I made dough and filling.
Soon oven heat released a sweet, spicy essence.
While waiting for the pies to bake, I took the
Fall leaves
and wove a wreath, looping wire around a wooden
frame,
interspersing fresh cranberries among the colorful
leaves.
I stopped when I heard you coming into the kitchen
with your jack-o-lantern. I wondered what face it
would reveal.
We took a walk one brisk afternoon,
shuffling through brown, gold, and
amber leaves falling around us.
As I bent to collect some, you joined me.
We selected the bright ones, still alive with shine.
We stopped at a market for food, including
the biggest, perfectly round pumpkin they had.
Once home, we set to work on it.
You sliced off the top, leaving its stem intact.
Then we both ambitiously dug out the pulp.
The juicy pulp would be for my pies.
I carried it off to the kitchen in a large bowl.
You took the pumpkin shell to hose off and carve.
In the kitchen I made dough and filling.
Soon oven heat released a sweet, spicy essence.
While waiting for the pies to bake, I took the
Fall leaves
and wove a wreath, looping wire around a wooden
frame,
interspersing fresh cranberries among the colorful
leaves.
I stopped when I heard you coming into the kitchen
with your jack-o-lantern. I wondered what face it
would reveal.
THE LIFE OF A ROSE
We were tight little rosebuds,
wrapped petal over petal,
pink and perfect in our innocence.
Stirring and thriving in the sun,
My velvet petals open and waiting,
winning or losing, being chosen.
Was it the same for you?
As quickly as a rose is picked,
its life begins to fade.
My head is bowed and limp upon my stem.
My edges curled, and color pale, while
my petals close sadly in shame.
Pressed inside a book, only a memory
of a short life. My scent is faint.
LEFT BEHIND
I am looking back at young salmon swimming
in a stream,
darting through stagnant water, and jumping
playfully,
their silvery scales reflecting sunlight. I was one
of them.
That small cove was my home and only world.
I was satisfied there, feeling safe in a warm,
familiar place,
while the others swam upstream. Where were
they going?
Now the water is gone. There is no way for me
to swim.
I jump helplessly, my body flopping in a net with
desperation.
The sun burns my flesh.
I am looking back at young salmon swimming
in a stream,
darting through stagnant water, and jumping
playfully,
their silvery scales reflecting sunlight. I was one
of them.
That small cove was my home and only world.
I was satisfied there, feeling safe in a warm,
familiar place,
while the others swam upstream. Where were
they going?
Now the water is gone. There is no way for me
to swim.
I jump helplessly, my body flopping in a net with
desperation.
The sun burns my flesh.
THE WEATHERMAN’S PROMISE
The promise is fulfilled
as the night sky opens up
spilling torrents of glorious rain
onto parched, city streets.
I revel in the moist, cool air.
Summer was hot, dry, and endless.
The rain falls heavily, but it relieves
the heaviness we felt all summer.
I want to run outside and drown
in the downpour, to turn my face
toward heaven and give thanks, but
I am content to stay indoors and listen.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
You can fix anything but a blank page.
—Nora Roberts
_____________________
—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!
For 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.
Find previous four-or-so posts
by scrolling down under
today’s; or find previous poets by
typing the name into the little beige box
at the top left-hand side of today’s post;
or go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
and find the date you want.
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.
Find previous four-or-so posts
by scrolling down under
today’s; or find previous poets by
typing the name into the little beige box
at the top left-hand side of today’s post;
or go to Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
and find the date you want.
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!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
gray-and-white
thunderheads
crown the Sierra, then
burst at the seams~
such blessings
from the gods!
