Days of Remembrance

 

Mr. Kit Kat

—Photo by Cynthia Linville
—Poetry by Cynthia Linville, Nolcha Fox,
Claire J. Baker, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Michael Ceraolo, Sayani Mukherjee, 

Caschwa, Joe Nolan, Shiva Neupane, 

and Devyanshi Neupane
—Photos by Cynthia Linville, Caschwa, 

and Shiva Neupane
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan

 

HELLO, GOODBYE
—Cynthia Linville, Lincoln, CA

When I met you, you were starving
a street creature in need of care.
I opened my door and you ran in.

You ate and slept and ate again
for two weeks straight
and I vowed you’d never know emptiness again.

Yet when I said goodbye to you yesterday
(seven years after we first met)
you were starving again
not for lack of food
but for lack of ability to take anything in
keep anything down.

You broke my heart twice,
but I wouldn’t trade those seven years for anything.



(Mr. Kit Kat d. 10/28/23)

 

 

—Photo by Cynthia Linville

 

FULL MOON
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

She’s a lunatic, a lone wolf,
a dancer whirling through the sky.
She drinks flamboyant sunsets
and kisses mornings goodbye.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

WINTER MOON
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

We have seen
the sister of the sun
at most full, seemingly
aware of each sojourner
on earth; how she appears

to care, slowly circling
above our one village,
one tribe,
as we share
prayer after prayer.


(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin,
Winter Issue, 2022)

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WINTER MOON
        California
—Claire J. Baker

The moon flowers
into full bloom.
We cradle hands
for mystical light.
We have waited years
    for such a night

A lustre slips into our
cupped hands
like a prayer
we were born to
    whisper
         whisper. 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Caschwa

 

WHEN LIGHT IS DARK
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

We all face phases in our life,
but what if others face the change?
They wax and wane as in a spin,
with light then darkness prevailing.
She once glowed brightly on the farm,
at one with nature, full corn groaned,
but with the cattle, mooncalves born,
as if dire legends jumped from ground.

She’d seen Maine Farmers’ Almanac,
Algonquian cycle, monthly turn,
snow, worm, pink, buck, sturgeon, ice, flower,
equated each with power to change.
Lunar periods took their toll,
as folklore, wolvers played their rôles,
insomnia and lunacy,
lycanthropy, in full force frights.

Much later clouded, nursing home,
where mists descend, dementia reigns,
the silver sheen about her crown,
now dull corona, eclipsed shine.
Her night mares splattered as sees wave,
splayed cross her ceiling, beams arrayed;
with harvest, hunters, new names bound,
but always full light, darkness sounds. 

 

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Caschwa

SIMPLE STIRRED?
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Why air our questions, grapple, grope,
confused and multichoice in style?
The licenced challenge—how we learn,
sudoku, wordle, cryptic cross,
the wordsearch lexicon in play.

Brain stimulus that fends off age,
the seventh, staged, delayed, school whine—
so much found out, beyond the pale,
that NASA work found living rooms—
the art of science, drilling down.

So feed me puzzles, jigsaw cuts,
crazy paving yet to be laid,
dry stone walls of intellect,
what crafts-folk learned at parent’s knee,
mosaic pieces, best displayed?

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

AT THE WAR MEMORIAL
—Stephen Kingsnorth

As silence fell we hear firing,
that rat-tat-tat of machine gunned,
and on it travels over flags,
the standards lowered, paving ground.

Exhausted by emitted fumes,
no silencer, victory vibes,
the status of triumph displayed,
its soundwaves dominate the air.

With the Last Post, Reveille sounds,
as Europe’s theatre counted last,
despite Slim pickings in the east,
passed over sacrifice revealed.

I thought of Lawrence on his wheels,
the weaving messengers of war,
one more dispatch, those flying wrens,
as farther fades that motorbike. 

 

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Caschwa

PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

It has some big words that those who need to hear it
probably don't know, but here goes anyway:
Putting on your four-way flashers does not
magically transform an illegal parking space
into a legal one

 

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Caschwa

 

SCALI
—Michael Ceraolo

Scali was not a creepy-crawly,
but he did make one's skin crawl when he boasted
that he was one with the terrorist's beliefs,
though he had never committed an act of terrorism
himself

 

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Caschwa

CONCLUSIVE PROOF
—Michael Ceraolo

The accomplished coach stayed on even after
the quarterback he won the championships with
had moved on to another team
Believing the media hype about yourself
is a sure sign you're not a genius

 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

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

Trees amidst my magnolia blush
Copperfield polished
The newly woven ombre rush
My beatnik smiles
It covets often
May had her December too
A fall crispy bacon flesh
Oomphs it searches
Munching everywhere
The earth's rotten daisy
It knows no fairytale
A pale-skinned dame
Her devilish laughter
Jupiterian vastness
It holds my breath.

—Photo Courtesy of Caschwa

KING PHILIP’S GREEN SOCKS
—Caschwa

survived the 3 R’s
good speller by rote
high school diploma
still too young to vote

almost died in a crash
went on to junior college
then a university
degree was my privilege

tried to put a name
to all that I’d learned
before the flames of time
would leave it broke and burned

domain, kingdom, phylum
are you asleep yet?
class, order, family
including your old pet

genus, species, that’s all
if you know what’s what
conquered mountain biking
sitting on my butt

 

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Caschwa

ODD SOUNDS
—Caschwa

every house makes its own sounds
that are heard every day, little creaks
or groans or whispering winds from
trees or private hushes from bees

there were times when I was alone
in the house and heard these sounds;
there were other times when my wife
was here, in another room, quietly

tapping, turning pages, changing
channels, or just moving about, and
now the house is empty, just me,
no wife, and I hear things that

make me question if I had heard
those things before, and invented a
handy scenario to explain what I had
heard, though lacking foundation

those cannot any longer be sounds
of my wife moving about, it is only I
and the heater, air conditioning,
refrigerator, and little animals tapping

on the roof, or slithering inside bags
that clutter the floor, or horses chasing
goats, preying on dogs, catching cats,
feeding on birds, munching spiders,

devising intricate webs, to annoy old
ladies who have to have things be
just so, and I can hear all that now,
as a matter of fact 

 

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Caschwa

REMEMBERING PASSION
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
 
Like rosary beads,
Like japa beads,
Like mantras
Repeated over and over,

Old women recall
The sweetest words
Said in times of passion
By lovers who’ve passed on,

Because women live longer than men
By around eight years
And they like how it feels to recall—

Each slip, slide and dip
Of knitting needles
Crafting a shawl
From memories
To needle-tips
Was another repetition
Of the sweetest words of all—
“I love you, I love you, I need you!”

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WISDOM-WONDERING
—Joe Nolan

Can wisdom wear down
Candlesticks
The way flame consumes
Their wax?

Does wisdom wax and wane
Like faith
Before the
Flame of
Daily cares?

Which way wisdom
When faith is weak—
When we cannot find
Words to speak
To utter any lesson
Or to preach?

Just let it be
Here, now?
Is there anything we share?
Is there any way to care
Or anything to teach?

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

THE DANCE OF DEATH
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

It is hard to understand
The language of war.
It speaks the language of strength,
But not the language of humanity.
The innocent souls have suffered
For no reason.
What on earth do we live in?
The lives have no value.
The dance of death decimated
Gaza.
At the expense of Innocent lives
The warmongers make their fortune.
This has to stop.
The world cannot afford to galvanize
Civilizational vendettas. 

 

 

 

 Devyanshi Neupane, age 4

—Photo by Shiva Neupane

 

Today’s LittleNip:

SUPERCALIFRAGILISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS
—Devyanshi Neupane, Melbourne, Australia
 
I love Nepal.
I love Australia.
I love my Family.
I love Cocomelon.  
I love to go to school.
I would like to say,
supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. 

 

 

 

 Devyanshi Neupane
—Photo by Shiva Neupane

__________________

Our newest poet today is Devyanshi Neupane, who was born in Melbourne, Australia to Mr. Shiva Neupane and Mrs. Devi Neupane Gaihre, Nepalese-born parents based in Australia. Devyanshi is their four-year-old daughter. She goes to Barrawang Primary School Kindergarten and has a younger sister, Saanvi Neupane. Devyanshi is the youngest poet from down under in Australia. Welcome to the Kitchen, Devyanshi, and don’t be a stranger!

Our thanks to all of today’s contributors with their vast array of poems and visuals. Some of them are writing to our Seed of the Week, Full Moon; be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

We do, however, pass our condolences on to Cynthia Linville on the passing of Mr. Kit Kat. And, as I mentioned before, several of our other SnakePals have experienced recent loss of loved ones. Autumn is a time of remembrance—and gratitude for the time that we had.

This week’s NorCal poetry events begin today with the Poetry in Motion read-around this morning in Placerville, then the Sacramento Poetry Center reading tonight with Bill Carr Jr. and Michaela Hadjicostandi-Anang, plus open mic. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these 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.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Mr. Kit Kat (with his human)

Days of Remembrance
—Photo by Cynthia Linville

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 Snicken
LittleSnake’s Glimmer of Hope
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):

cock’s-comb
of grey smoke~
annual ritual of
burning leaves…