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Thursday, November 30, 2023

One Knee Bent

 
—Poetry by John Tustin, Myrtle Beach, SC
—Artwork Courtesy of Norman J. Olson,
Maplewood, MN


BOILING TWO EGGS

Boiling two eggs
in another nothing night hurtling toward
another
nothing daytime.

Listening to doo wop,
waiting for the one big nothing
that comes finally
after
all these little nothings
that fill up the mornings,
noons and nights

and also waiting,
in the meantime,
for this water

to boil

as the doo wop boys,
(most of them gone now
to the big nothing)
do their shoo-bop
shoo-bops
just for me.

The night is now
twenty minutes closer
to becoming another day.

The water has long boiled.
I peel the eggs,
on my way to a few minutes
of another little nothing.

Shoo-bop shoo-bop shoo-bop.
 
 
 

 
FAERIE WINGS

She lives someplace called Blum, Texas
and I imagine it looks like that town in
The Last Picture Show,
right down to being in black and white.
I live somewhere else, far away—not that it
makes any difference.

She has dark brown eyes, a chestnut brown,
and she bites her fingernails down to the nub
when she’s feeling anxious (she’s always
feeling anxious)
and then she feels very guilty about it,
the way she feels guilty about everything
and she hides her fingertips in her balled fists
whenever someone else is around
and she is cognizant enough to do it.

I talk to her once in a while
and we don’t really talk about much
of substance
but it makes me feel good anyway.
I look at her photograph as we talk on
the phone—
her small demur cleavage and her one dimpled
smile;
her teeth that try to fight out of her pursed lips
and the freckles that dot her nose and cheeks.
She looks like a drawing in a fairytale storybook
or a sprite in a Dark Ages painting 

depicting an orgiastic magic woodland reverie,
missing only her faerie wings,
although maybe she pins them down, close to
her back,
so that no one can see them—

but I see her dark hair too wild to behave in
wind or rain
and the look that I perceive behind her eyes
and I believe that I know who and what she is,
even if her every thought and movement
signifies uncertainty.
I don’t know how she contains herself—
such feral sexuality and wildness,
but I know for certain she is contained.

We were talking earlier today
and neither of us really said much.
I enjoy listening to her voice.
It was the first time we talked in a great
while.
I kept looking at her picture as we spoke
as if, just by willing it, she would rise off
of the paper
and appear before me here,
all the way from her perch in Blum, Texas
(wherever that is)—
floating off the ground a little,
barefoot and marvelous before me,
her wings all aflutter,
too young and with her too old soul,
her smirk infused with so much sadness.
A sadness of childhood and death,
of a lifetime pinning her faerie wings under
her shirt
and forfeiting herself to life on this solid
ground
because society demands that of all of us;
demands that, most sadly, of her—
a faerie-winged sprite
rotting away her sweet soul in a place called
Blum, Texas—
 
 
 


FROGS

Frogs making noises with their fat throats
In the darkness while the rain falls and falls
And they advertise their lust in the night

While I wait for you and you do not come
And I know you will never come and I wait
anyway
Because you promised and I can’t admit
you’re a liar.

I forgive you but my greatest fear
Is that God does not love you anymore
Because of what you’ve done to me and that
weighs on me

While the boy frogs inflate their vocal sacs
And cry out in the wet darkness for the girl
frogs
Who will come to them and then they’ll
comingle

While the rain falls and the rain falls and
the rain falls in the night.





GENTLER

I used to be the same as almost all of you
Or should I say no different from most of
the rest of you?
During a heated argument with the wife
I would do just as she did—
Without thinking say the most hurtful and
emotionally damaging
Thing that I could possibly say.
In my defense, she usually did it first
But I still did it back.

That is how I lead my life—
Ready to return the bitterly smacked serve
And scour a heart with vitriol
At a moment’s notice,
Not even thinking about it.
How exciting to have face flushed, heart
racing
And that feeling of hate and satisfaction
mixed
When my words pierced a chest like the point
of a sword.
Watching the face of the foe twist up
And waiting for the response that would
surely hurt me
But not nearly as deep a wound as I had
stricken.

The idea of that makes me sick now.
My anger now is always turned inward, at
myself.
It’s better that way. Controllable.
For others I have only pity when they attempt
To top me in argument with comments about
my hair
Or my beard or my face or my fat or my dead
mother.
It feels so good, being better than most of the
rest of you
And especially my wife, now X,
Who still has everything I once had and now
don’t have
Except for one thing—
The ability to aim the anger inward.
The one thing I have is being better than her
in this specific way.

Holding my tongue instead of my knife of
words
Is the only reason I can sleep at night.
I feel…clean.
The satisfaction of this.
I used to be no different than most of the rest
of you
And being gentler now feels good.
It’s the only thing that feels good.
 
 
 
 
 
THE NEIGHBOR CAT

If I died tonight
it’s possible the neighbor cat
would wonder why I no longer pass by
on my way to the community dumpster
or to the path where I take my walks.

Perhaps he’ll wonder about where
that strange man who always stops
and gives words to his not-understanding ears
has gone to.
Does he wonder about other people he’s met
that he now no longer sees?
Does he understand death,
contemplate his own—
or is his purposeful avoidance of danger
100% unthinking instinct?

If the neighbor cat does wonder
about where I’ve gone to,
how long before he forgets me?
Forgets our moments
of me spouting babytalk
while he rolled on his back before me,
looking up into my eyes
and slow-blinking his approval?

Nearly every night
my own death crosses my mind
and like an adventurous bon vivant of
morbidity
I pair my death with different people or
scenarios
as if it is a standby wine
opened with a new meal for the first time.
Tonight I pair my death
with the neighbor cat.
If he walks across my dreams tonight,
slow-blinking the answer
to tonight’s pondering,
I’ll be sure to let you know.
 
 
 


ORANGE-RED

You are orange-red like a fire in the distance,
Like bees rising up in their quivering oneness
swarm;

Like the sun in anger from her early morning
perch above it all;

Like the sun in nightly decline, falling so
slowly
Into blue-green seas of nightly tranquility
Or nightly despair.

You are orange-red like the vibrations of
auras,
Like deep dirt dug up to plant trees or gather
stones;

Like iodine on the wound that will not heal;
 
Like the promise of tomorrow riding on the
broken back
Of today, of now, of this pinkish-purple
gamble of every night
In hopeful repair.
 
 
 


THAT PAINTED PICTURE OF US

I keep staring at that painted picture of us
That sits above my bed
With its muted colors—

You lying naked but under sheets
And just one half of my face
Peeking at you from behind the curtain,

Reflected in the mirror
And reflected in your eyes.
Your eyes are downcast,

The position of your face bashful,
The position of your body defiant
As I remain hidden and watching you.

I stare at it before I go to bed every night
And it causes me to sob and to shake.
It is the only painting I have ever painted

And even then, it is a collaboration
With you. Of every one of my suggestions,
Not one was implemented.

My colors would have been somewhat bolder
In places. Your eyes would not be cast
downward
And I would not be behind the curtain

But closer, much closer.
It’s always been your painting,
I just inhabit one corner of it—

Paintbrush ever ready.
 

 
 
 
YOUR SKIN IS BREATHING

Your skin is breathing all over me.
White puffs of cool air.
The room is sighing.
The light countermands the dark.
Your hands glide winged along the cliffs
of my body.
Your lips climb my mountain face.
We are thigh to thigh.
Your lower lip exquisite to my teeth.
Your body shudders like Armageddon.
Indistinct voices in the hall are ignored.
The bed is a sanctuary.
The bed is a tabernacle to worship the
present.
The bed is an island.
We lie fixed and tangled to the other.
Leg to leg, face to face.
Stranded.
Smiling just a little.
 
 
 
 
 
TOTAL DARKNESS

Sometimes I wake up here
In the middle of the night
And I open my eyes to find
Such total darkness
That it seems as if I haven’t opened
My eyes at all

And a wave of fear overcomes me

But then my eyes scan the room
And find the smallest light
Somewhere outside the window
And I know I am still alive,
Here in this room,

And the fear subsides,
Only to be overtaken
By a mixture of relief
And disappointment.
 
 
 

 
THIS TIME OF NIGHT

What is it about this time of night?

The clown who laughs all day
Sits on his trunk of disguises,
Crying into his sleight-of-hands;

The drunk is no longer swaying
And the room does not spin
As he lies in bed, shaken
In his moment of clarity;

The waitress is off her feet,
Cursing the moon,
Not wanting the sun;

The singer rests his throat
And his fingers strum nothing,
The guitar resting atilt in the corner;

The farmer ticks the seconds off,
His ears awaiting the rooster;

The whore sighs a moment’s relief;

The old woman can hear herself creak;

The sun sneaks up on the road ahead;

The poet has something to write about.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps…so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.

—Dylan Thomas

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to John Tustin for his return to the Kitchen this morning with his fine poems, and to Norman Olson for returning to us with his equally fine artwork! It's been far too long since we've heard from either one of them.



—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy 
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA





 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 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
 to 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!
 
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

running down the street
buck chases doe—
sprightly girl slips away
this time…
























Wednesday, November 29, 2023

One Knee Bent

  
Summer Green Leaves
—Photo by Ann Wehrman
—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Chris Feldman and Ann Wehrman
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Pixabay


the leaves are dancing

flat, soft, fuzzy
cerulean leaves turn and dance
above, beneath, entwine with gentle breeze
leaves light as the sunbeams
that dapple and warm them
 
 
 
Rose
—Photo by Patricia York, CCO, from Pixabay.com


dewdrop

petals sweet, ruby-red
drop of dew glistens
on delicate surface
shimmers, quivers
petals lift in the breeze
dewdrop remains


(prev. pub. online at poetry.com, 2002;
since revised)
 
 
 
 Pine Needles in 3D
—Photo by Chris Feldman
 

CAUTION

Ice scent on the wind
deep, brisk, invigorating
still, inside I’m warm.
 
 
 
 Elephant
—Photo by Chris Feldman


THE ELEPHANT IN THE ROOM

the elephant in the room
your cancer
has returned, stronger

there may still be a chance
though chemo is a bi-weekly roaring tiger
that bites you, then chews slowly
spits you out, then comes back for more

you rationalize
you are over seventy now with few regrets
but what would you do
with another two decades

travel Europe with your love
create music, photography
continue your spiritual studies

the shade is drawn, late afternoon sepia
November’s early twilight
subterranean in your refurbished Victorian
aged furnace rumbles

your cat, best partner
reclines on your chest
your thoughts reflective, intuitive, logical

in the center of your room
of your body, your life
the elephant 
 
 
 
 Tunnel Lights
—Photo by Chris Feldman


MISSING YOU

you’re far away,
yet your spirit holds me

I’m drawn deep within
the memory of your eyes,
envision your lips on mine

a covered bridge
spans the distance between us
tongues are flashes
heat lightning

I imagine your long legs touching mine
our spirits blend in the darkness

do you see my face?
 
 
 
 Stormbridge
—Photo by Chris Feldman
 

INTERIM SONNET

I tried to write about our love today
although I should have given it more time
I searched for perfect words that would convey
this moment’s crystal call within my mind

to hold you, feel your love again—and I
still love you, mind to mind.  It’s worth the Muse
though she withholds her touch, but still, I try—
I write, then crunch the paper--it’s no use.

I pace through stretching, work, then nap,
I rest. I’m only fallow ground for now.
The shortest walk outside these days will sap
my aging fire. So, will you come? And how

to live my last few years on Earth with you—
admitted, it’s my dream—and your dream, too?
 
 
 
 Rainy Afternoon
—Photo by Chris Feldman


HYMN TO MY LADY (MALADY)

give my life
each day a little death
to die in your arms, death into life
bones in my feet swell
I limp on through the rain

spring birds, squalling child
marrying maids, doves in their cotes
dance and sing—
I cower in my corner
listen to raindrops fall
 
 
 
 Clockwork Nightmare
—Photo by Chris Feldman


MOSCOW

in the orphanage
thin faces
pinched and white
steel blue eyes
peer warily
at strangers
too tense, too cold for tears

he fled the shelter’s abuse
now begs for coins
in the subway
cigarette hanging
from nine-year-old lips

darkness falls
he steps over
empty vodka bottles
crawls between
two wooden boards
under a staircase


(The poem, “Moscow,” was inspired by an 
NBC television broadcast on March 18, 1999, 
on the situation in Russia at that time.)
 
 
 
Graveyard Panorama
—Photo by Chris Feldman
 

THREE HAIKU AGAINST WAR

    I.    Failure

After the bombs fell,
I walked through the barren spring—
10,000 years more.



    II.    Dark Age

After the bombs fell,
chewing on my fingertips
I wrote poems in blood.



    III.    Desperation

My computer down,
rough-edged calloused fingertips
trace letters in blood.
 
 
 
 Fisherman
—Photo by Ann Wehrman


KEEPING FAITH

Afternoon clock records time’s silent
movement;
statue of a Chinese fisherman: glossy
jade jacket, upraised pole, white beard, one
knee bent.

Honored teacher, fear not; you haven’t
lost me.
Days and years continue—wind, sun, and
rain-filled;
statue of a Chinese fisherman, glossy.

Almost twenty years now, my own row I’ve
tilled;
in the first few, the humble statue came to me,
as the days continued—wind, sun, and rain-
filled.

Although I’d never buy it, this gift was free;
salesman brought it, on the job, with other
stock.
Within a few years, the statue came to me.

The class of artwork I’ve been known to
mock,
it holds an honored spot wherever I go;
salesman gave it, as I unloaded his stock.

Beyond my window’s lock, strong spring
breezes blow
and the clock records time’s relentless move-
ment.
He holds an honored spot wherever I go—
jade jacket, upraised pole, white beard, one
knee bent.
 
 
 
 Invocation
—Photo by Chris Feldman


NOVITIATE

Old man pores over
leather-bound book;
dust sparkles
in soft sun’s rays, dances
around him,
anoints his bent head.

Dark-rimmed glasses heavy
on his nose, head sinks slowly,
settles onto the cryptic text.
Through tired lips
his soft breath grows regular,
a little drool escapes.

Smiling,
she peers over the fragile pile:
bent shoulders, balding pate,
still laced with reddish brown.
She squints to catch
words he had read,
between his snores
gently removes his spectacles,
raises her hands,
pulls down holy fire.
 
 
 
 Coffee Beans
—Photo by Bellezza87, CCO, from Pixabay.com


A RIDDLE

I grew up plump and red-cheeked
on a high mountain farm,
loved to swing
in the sunlight and fresh breeze.
Yet one day, my fortune changed,
and like a Black man ripped from his home,
I was plucked out,
crammed onto a monstrous ship,
jostled, packed tightly into the hold.
Nothing in my childhood had prepared me
for the slow-burning fire, the grinding pain
as, fully matured, I was pressed into service.

I yielded all, my heart’s blood expiated in
offering,
and I hope that it soothed someone,
warmed, braced, and strengthened someone,
as I lie here, old and spent,
my remains in a heap, soon to be
returned to the ground and forgotten.
 
 
 
 Dark Journey
—Photo by Chris Feldman


Today’s LittleNip:

EPITAPH
(For Ruth)
—Ann Wehrman

here lies one who loved
although not always wisely or well
nonetheless, Hell itself will
finally bow and release her
to climb, by herself
every long and painful step back home

___________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to Ann Wehrman and Chris Feldman for their very successful collaboration today!
 
 
 
 
 —Illustration Courtesy of Public Domain

























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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 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
 to 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!
 
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)
 
suspended in
misty meditation—
garden store
mossy Buddha





















Tuesday, November 28, 2023

The Turbulence of Time

 
It’s All Wordless
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam
 
 
ABOUT POETRY
—Joyce Odam

One humid August night the moon hung
on a string held by a single star
in a sky gone suddenly black.

The night felt as though
all the fight had gone out of it—
the day so long and quarrelsome.

The tired moon hung—
half a moon—facing homeward
as we drove in our quiet car

in the direction it pointed,
over the quiet freeway—
it was that late.

The hot night shone
as though swept clean of something.
Our talk was slow,

as though even this late hour
dwindled out of enough meaning
to go any further with words.

“Is it all
about poetry?”
one of us asked. And one of us said,

“Yes.” And one of us said, “No.”
And the mobile moon
did not sway—not even a little bit.

___________________

A SHADOW MOVING FROM THE WALL
After “Waltz” from The First Echelon
by Dmitri Shostakovich
—Joyce Odam


Fine piece of music—
hypnotic—
one might even want to

waltz,
alone or with another,
a shadow moving from the wall

onto the floor
into the swirling
where the dance seems not to end

until all the dancers tire and leave,
except for
one dark lady

holding on
to the shadow’s arm,
the echoes flowing through the wall.

                              
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/23/18)
 
 
 
 Of That To Be Learned

 
ABERRATIONS OF DESIRE
—Joyce Odam

Wings lowered—hands raised in offering—
I know that pose—caryatid—envile
against mortal at risk—temptation,
offered to resistance—Lilith,
goddess of the dark,
enigmatic of face,
unblinking of eyes
—representative
of her dark divinity,
her talons grounded
on the subordinate backs
of lions—force against helpless
force; by her side, two sated owls
rigid in stone—to mock and warn—
ever-guarding, mocking aberrations
of either direction—Lilith—regent of
the afterlife—ready for your knowing.
 
 
 
 The Listener

 
SPOKEN
—Robin Gale Odam

Your words
hung at the doorway
of my comprehending.
They waited for my recognition.
They waited for so long.

(Come in, come in, words,
now that you are spoken,
come in.)


(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2014) 
 


Of Storms And Weather
 

DESPAIRING OF LOVE
—Joyce Odam

A drop of love is falling
through the sky,
a perfect pearl,
still moist
from the heavenly oyster
falling in slow motion
as if falling through water—
a black sea of waiting,
tide after tide,
for the arrival.
Who will see it,
know what it is,
if not someone
mad with grieving,
never having known
the least drop of love,
someone who is somewhere
with hand outstretched in
one last supplication, in one
final prayer. If love will reach,
it will be when the distance has been
traveled between need and answer.

                                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/16/21)

______________________

INSOMNIA XLVII
—Robin Gale Odam

Vespers, evening whispers,
a prelude for the writing—for the
litany of promises and the spectre
at the crest of night, for the turn
of the hourglass and the pouring of
salt, for the passing of the hour.

Not a turning point, not at all . . .
but then the trailing, or maybe
just the trail . . . or the early dark
along the rills of the passions.

My pencil for a chapter—for the
vespers, for whisperings of prayers.
 
                        
(prev. pub. in Brevities, Nov.-Dec. 2021) 
 
 
 
 Of Prayer And Petition
 

ABSENCES (OUTSIDE OF THE PAINTING)
—Joyce Odam

          “I’ll get them to delay the train for Rouen  
           half an hour. The light will be better then.”
          “You’re mad,” said Renoir.
                                   —Monet (Gare St Lazarre)


train silhouette at dawn,
passenger silhouettes in cold huddle . . .

the turbulence of time—
its railway tracks—its flurry . . .

night-fog dispersing its heaviness,
impatience of the hour . . .

long thread of excitement—anxious for
the ‘all aboard’—the long ride to here . . .

 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/2/14;
12/2/14; 4/3/18)


___________________

THE ARTIST
—Robin Gale Odam

He believed
the first was born
of idle tinkering,
but he worked into the night
as time moved silently.

They came to form
in his strong hands.
He understood them,
suspended between thought
and movement.
He was their breath.

In his youth he had sipped
the holy water.
He had lived in the music.
He had gathered stones.
He had known of desire and
gazed into dreams.

He dreamt
of heaven’s music
blowing over the water
and graceful figures
moving through shadow.
They were coming to listen.

He awoke to some sweet song.
Inspiration rose up in him
and he closed his eyes to see.
He was shadow.
He heard himself
singing in the night. 
 
 
 
 Of Peace
 
                
ABSTRACTION
After “Yana Yamaya” by Carina Clavija
—Joyce Odam


she closes her eyes against the world,
the time of the world,
the guise of the world

she paints her face, her eyes, her lips,
signs her name at the credit edges
of her mind

she borrows a tune to hum,
changes the words,
finds her trance

she does not merge into a wall,
it recedes—recedes—into
a memory of space

she dis-
connects
from the space around her

she is who she will be forever—
forever and now
and the now of forever

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE ABSTRACT LIGHT
—Joyce Odam

Woman sitting in the garden
in stippled light,
in artist pose.

The abstract light
plays with her face,
her thoughts, her clothes.

Nothing matters but the day
that turns. The hour
slows.

The garden whispers,
spreads its shadows,
glows.

___________________

Our thanks for today’s bountiful blessings of poetry and photos from Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam, with their talk of all the arts—dance, music, art, poetry—and fine photos to mark their words.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Murmurations”. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

___________________

—Medusa
 
 














 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that Joshua McKinney,
Autumn Newman, and Aaron Bradford
will be reading tonight at
Twin Lotus Thai in Sacramento;
and Major Jackson will be presenting
the first of a series of online workshops
on Galway Kinnell later this afternoon.
For info about these 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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 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
 to 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!
 
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

cocky covey struts
along the sidewalk
seeking easy pickin’s—
Oops! Here comes
that little one
who’s always late…



































 

 

Monday, November 27, 2023

Bountiful, Indeed!

 
—Public Domain Photo(s) Courtesy of Joe Nolan
—Poetry by Charles Mariano, Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee,
Shiva Neupane, Caschwa, Robert Fleming,
and Joe Nolan
—Artwork by Robert Fleming; 
Original Photo by Shiva Neupane


GATHERING
—Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA
 
in between
anxious anticipation,
heavenly aromas,
in all our rooms
this day,
 
from the driveway
through the windows
and doors,
my family comes,
 
like a warm blanket
on a freezing day
we hold close,
then closer
 
...Thanksgiving comes
 
in this tiny,
sliver of quiet
before it all begins,
i feel my mother,
 
at the door
with open arms,
tears on her face,
she hugs me
 
the smell of Zest soap
and Avon perfume
 
Thanksgiving
was always
Mama's day
 
and i'm thankful,
so very thankful... 
 
 
 
Too skinny to eat this Thanksgiving… yay!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
 
 
BOUNTIFUL
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Halloween of blacks and reds
and witches twitching on a switch
greet passersby when summer
won’t let autumn in.
Christmas decorates the stores
when ghosts and goblins
barely make their candy runs.
Thanksgiving gets a nod
with pumpkins, hay, and turkey
prowling through the aisles.
What a glorious holiday mess,
a bounty of festivities.
I’ll be exhausted by the time
the new year rolls around,
and will burrow in my bed
til Valentine’s sweet chocolates
lure me back into the seasons.
 
 
 
—Public Domain Photo
 

BOUNTIFUL
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

’Twas mutiny, subconscious sound
that bounced, arose from sonar depths,
of Technicolor Brando—Bligh,
and Fletcher Christian, mutineer.
Then from that screen, another scene,
that for a choco bar of note—
confection from the planet Mars
with coconut ingredient—
and adverts from a tropic shore,
of Bounty hunters, paradise.

Beyond commercials, power of film,
I’m left, old fashioned gratitude,
the hymns of Harvest Festivals,
and poetry of Emily.
Theology of yesteryear,
as with the glow of summer suns,
along with word deployed just here,
a lexicon of lost appeal,
when daily feed is pain and loss,
and bounty more a hellish curse. 
 
 
 
Autumn Girl 
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
 

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


My mind's a ribbon blue
Black-hued parsley green
Ivy lead open
My further glance into
My Casanova smile
Delicacy lasts long
Old enough to fly
My cookies know that shape
Criss-cross suburban South
Too ordinary for living
A motel of sky scrapers
Munich to Vienna
Topples into
Swimming nothing
My hats are over there
Hibiscus-orange
Playing with fire
Rituals of ordinary ordinance
That shape still plunges
My mind's a ribbon blue. 
 
 
 
 Saanvi and Devyanshi Neupane, 
with two of Shiva’s books
—Photos by Shiva Neupane

 
MY GIFTS AND GOSPELS
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

I'm blessed to have beautiful kids.
The tremendous learning curve,
Brimmed with potential.
The road of their future is immaculate.
I'm presenting my books to them
for achieving a psychological victory
over their pessimistic tendency in life.
These gifts would nurture their can-do attitude.
I'm lucky enough to celebrate the moment
with them.
Every day I have an appetite for what I could
teach them.
My goal is to nourish them with moral erudition.
I’m excited what the future holds for them.
I hope my kids will treasure
the academic life and bring
the difference in this world.
 
 
 
—Public Domain Photo

 
RAILROAD MONOPOLY
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

a train has the right of way,
so if a person gets in the
way and gets run over and
killed, the blame falls to the
person; we all know that

free enterprise has given our
big and giant corporations
that same sort of right of way,
so they use that as a privilege
to make us all into test dummies
to try out new product changes

members of the public die driving
their cars, eating their food, and
even sleeping in their cribs; we all
know that, sort of, or do most of us
need a reminder?
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 
DARN DETAILS
—Caschwa

back around the middle of the last century,
school teachers instructed that all the little
boys and girls put a comma after each of
the 3 or more items listed in a series, but
exclude the comma before the last “and”.

This worked well for me until 2007, when I
took California’s test for Office Technician,
and ALL OF A SUDDEN they were using a
different serial comma rule. That was the
only thing I got wrong on the test.

Fast forward again to November, 2023, when
the Sacramento County Assessor sent me a
Change In Ownership Statement form for me
to review, sign, and submit. That form contained
a Certification clause to sign, which was set forth
as: “I certify (or declare) under penalty of perjury
under the laws of the State of California that the
information contained herein is true, correct and
complete to the best of my knowledge and belief.”

Sure enough, all those little boys and girls never
got the memo that the serial comma rule had
been changed, and we are now using the Oxford
or Harvard system that does, in fact, put a comma
before the last “and” in a series.

You would be very proud of me for all the effort I
exerted to stifle my humility, give it a rest, and not
notify the County of Sacramento that its Certifica-
tion language was woefully obsolete, and needs to  
be revised. Having been a state worker, I know that
they already have a few other, more pressing
matters on their plate before letting one resident’s
comma riot affect their busy day.
 
 
 
 Choosing a Christmas Tree 1
—Visual by Robert Fleming

 
ASSEMBLE THE MONSTER
—Robert Fleming, Lewes, DE

don’t pick up that blue square
you can’t make a monster with blue

close your eyes
extend your fingers
onto the one-inch rectangles
rub the bottom connector
bumps onto your scalp

open your eyes
connect ten-blue six-red four-yellows
say the prayer three times
press down
touch a yellow
enter the Lego-verse

pet your creation
the monster is you
 
 
 
 Choosing a Christmas Tree 2
—Visual by Robert Fleming

 
CRASHING SNOW*
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

It was long ago
When the roof of a Plymouth Duster
Was crushed-in by snow,
Heavy and wet,
That slipped from the roof of a home,
Down onto a Duster
In a driveway
Where it
Had been parked.

Oh, how sore
The brother was
Who owned the victim car—
Struck without warning
By a sudden crush
Of heavy snow and slush
From a roof above an attic,
Three storeys, up.

It wasn’t the first time
For a massive drop of snow.
It wouldn’t be the last.
Winter has such pitfalls
For the unwary,
The careless,
Tempters of fate,
But we expect it
More-so from below—
To slip on ice,
To fall down,
Even a stoop of stairs.

How rude to be
Done-in
From above
By a sudden
Crash of snow.

There was nothing for it
But to have it hauled away.
Bad luck.
Sad day.


*true story!
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
 

WINTER’S COLD
—Joe Nolan

Winter is the coldest word.
White the coldest color
That shrouds the world
Beneath its snow
In weary months,
Still to go,
Before there’s fresh, green fields.

A time of rest
For resting things
Like bears borne-down in sleep, but

Wolves are running still,
Through forests,
Steaming forth each breath,
Searching for the weakest ones,
The easiest to death,
Warm meat to eat.

Oh! Winter, cold!
Bane of those who’ve
Yet grown old
And are unsure of feet,
Lest they fall
And break a hip,
Taken down
By ice, below,
Frozen in the night
After warmer day.
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
 

SURVIVAL OF WILL
—Joe Nolan

Does the will to live
Disappear upon death,
Or does such will survive?

Why do ghosts
Appear as though mists,
Looking somewhat similar
To their hosts,
When they were alive?

Do they try to connect with the living,
To find someone who still cares
For their souls—
Fallen to shadows,
Trapped between panes of glass
In the afterlife?
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
 

INSOMNIA AND FLIGHT
—Joe Nolan

There’s what you do
And why you do it.

From the outside,
Things you do
Might look the same,
But inside,
It’s a question of

Altruism versus
Compulsion,
Of drawn-to
Versus dread,
Of living in light             
Versus wishing for death.

Oh, insomnia!
The incinerator of souls
Melter of all things metal—
Good, bad or indifferent.
Stripper-away
Of virtue and glaze—
The luster-shine of wax.
It hobbles a walking-pace,
Hollowing-out
Your inner-space
Where there should be a soul.

If you miss your nightly flight with the angels,
What good could you be the next day?
Pray for a peaceful death, each night
And consign yourself to the stars
With abandon,
Into a lover’s arms.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

 
 
 
—Robert Fleming
 

___________________

Welcome to the tail-end of turkey time! Our bountiful poetry and visuals today are indeed Bountiful (our Seed of the Week), as we all recover from Thanksgiving’s tryptophanic family fun and frolic. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week, and you’d better hit the treadmill—Christmas feasts are just around the corner!

___________________

—Medusa
 
 
 
 
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 






 
 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that
David Holper and Andrena Zawinski
will read at Sac. Poetry Center tonight.
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—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
 during the week.

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; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
 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
 to 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!
 
 LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope

(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)

navigating life~
fitting a big ship
into a small harbor…