Out of Darkness

 

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

First frost

reminds me leaves will drop
and brown and crunch and scatter,
that soon I’ll wrap my brittle bones
in fleece and wool and shivers,
that sidewalks will be coated ice
and I must watch my step,
that snow and ice will melt in spring
and bring us fruit and flowers.

 

 

 

 

This body is

a log, a chiseled
thing with wooden
wings that
cannot hover
over ponds,
a boat of timber,
waterlogged, that
cannot float,
abandoned
in the woods.

 

 

 

 

Plunged into

darkness, the streetlights
drink starlight, the moon
hides her face underneath
a black curtain, clock faces
are blank, the lamps
cast no shadow, the silence
is louder than my beating heart.

 

 

 

 

THE ROOM I FEAR

Poe would love a room like this,
with peril predetermined.
While some see books from floor to roof,
I see an earthquake burial.

 

 

 

WHISPERS

lace curtain lifts
and listens
to the whispers
of the wind.
Whispers waft
towards towels
hanging on the rack.
Towels tattle
all the secrets
spread by breezes
whisking through
the sunlit room.
Soapsuds lulled
to sleep by
gossip they heard
yesterday.

 

 

 

 

JELLY

So soft and so squishy,
he flavors his meal
with some salt and small skulls
of the unwitting victims
he lured from the depths
with a deli of sweetly
swift stings.

 

 

 

 

HAUNTING

You sing through the keyhole,
move curtains and lampshades
to dance to a tune I can only imagine.
I listen for words, but I only hear whispers that
promise much more than my poor ears can bear.
The piano keys move, but there’s nobody playing
the melodies haunting each room in the house.
Please show yourself, don’t be so coy,
I won’t hurt you. I only love music,
I want to applaud.

 

 

 

 

BLUR

Your death was a blur, you spinning
wildly around the borders
of my life.

 

 

 

 

WHAT CHANGED

Once I believed
I could do anything,
not knowing what
anything might be.
Anything
became nothing
interesting.
I did it anyway.
And now
I am nothing.
Interesting.

 

 

 

WHEN I AM DEAD

will I miss the rise and set
of sun that marked the
borders of my days?
Will I miss spring rain,
fall leaves that blow and hide
beneath the sparkling snow?
Will I need these pleasures,
or will I simply rest in
just not being, free of pain
and age and worries?
Will that be enough for me?

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Winter holds

a yellow leaf
between its bone-chilled fingers,
gifting it to starry night
as keepsake for tomorrow.

—Nolcha Fox

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for her (somewhat) dark poems to mark this season of ghosts and goblins!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry of the Sierra Foothills
features Estela Victoria-Cordero
and Paul Aponte plus open mic at
Chateau Davell in Camino today, 2pm.
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
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 LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

Nolcha spins tales of
brittle bones, lamps
without shadow,
whispers of promise
singing through
the keyhole…