—Poetry by Joan Leotta, North Carolina
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
A ROBOT LOVE STORY
My heart skipped a beat when
I looked around in
what appeared to be my
former, darkened living room.
A small silver robot
clutching artificial yellow
blossoms in its robot pincers
buzzing, was rolling toward
me on awkward, boxy robot feet.
A robot sending flowers?
“AI is really out of hand now,”
I said to myself.
From another corner of the room
I heard my son’s chuckle
and then the tinny voice of
the robot’s recording:
“for you, Mom.”
Before I could reach
for the flowers,
daylight tickled
my eyelids open.
That morning I left
my chores undone
to rummage through the boxes
of his things I kept
after he died, and there,
in the box was the Robot.
I put in new batteries,
turned on the voice control
and listened to a tinny version
of my son’s voice
announce, “Love you Mom.”
That small bouquet of words
kept fresh by the robot’s innards!
Who knew AI could
reach across the Styx
to offer comfort?
My heart skipped a beat when
I looked around in
what appeared to be my
former, darkened living room.
A small silver robot
clutching artificial yellow
blossoms in its robot pincers
buzzing, was rolling toward
me on awkward, boxy robot feet.
A robot sending flowers?
“AI is really out of hand now,”
I said to myself.
From another corner of the room
I heard my son’s chuckle
and then the tinny voice of
the robot’s recording:
“for you, Mom.”
Before I could reach
for the flowers,
daylight tickled
my eyelids open.
That morning I left
my chores undone
to rummage through the boxes
of his things I kept
after he died, and there,
in the box was the Robot.
I put in new batteries,
turned on the voice control
and listened to a tinny version
of my son’s voice
announce, “Love you Mom.”
That small bouquet of words
kept fresh by the robot’s innards!
Who knew AI could
reach across the Styx
to offer comfort?
WHO LOVES THE SOUND OF RAIN?
My friend does. He lives in Utah
where prayers for rain have long
gone unanswered.
For him, the tap, tap, tap
of droplets pelting his roof
is the percussion of
an angelic band, music
he wishes to hear.
Dark clouds bring dark thoughts
for me, however—memories
of days and days of rain,
water flowing from sky
filling pond and creek, then
into my yard, lapping at my door
swishing around in the garage
threatening to climb up
our tires until seats are damp—
smelly water, full of snakes
‘gators, muck, and mire.
My prayers are to mitigate,
not encourage, rain to pour
down at will. I wish
for moderation. Even so,
rain’s tat, tat, tat
on my roof still inspires me
to reach for flashlights,
to move family photos.
to higher shelves.
It’s not a sound I love.
My friend does. He lives in Utah
where prayers for rain have long
gone unanswered.
For him, the tap, tap, tap
of droplets pelting his roof
is the percussion of
an angelic band, music
he wishes to hear.
Dark clouds bring dark thoughts
for me, however—memories
of days and days of rain,
water flowing from sky
filling pond and creek, then
into my yard, lapping at my door
swishing around in the garage
threatening to climb up
our tires until seats are damp—
smelly water, full of snakes
‘gators, muck, and mire.
My prayers are to mitigate,
not encourage, rain to pour
down at will. I wish
for moderation. Even so,
rain’s tat, tat, tat
on my roof still inspires me
to reach for flashlights,
to move family photos.
to higher shelves.
It’s not a sound I love.
THE USES OF WAR
We’ve gained so much, they say,
“Technology and medicine have
made great strides thanks to
discoveries made in war.”
Do these men behind desks
speaking into microphones,
smiling into cameras, think
a smaller television,
a new way to set a bone
justifies the many deaths?
Have they ever stood by
Rows of military graves,
watched a child and mother
weep over one of the markers?
They want us to believe war
serves progress, but I think
real progress would be
made in peace. Rows of
grave markers are not
worth a smaller television set.
THE SILENCE AFTER WAR
My father returned
from war and never spoke of it.
He let my mother
throw out his uniform,
medals still attached.
When I studied his war
in school and asked about it,
he would softly whisper only
“It was horrible.”
Since his time, I’ve seen war
on television, learned of
soldier and civilian screams
and the whistle of falling bombs
and the horrible sounds of
the destruction afterwards.
My father saw all of this.
Other fathers see it now.
I hope these current soldiers
will return home, like my dad,
able to enjoy life’s quiet
moments, the silence that is peace.
SIX GIRAFFES—AS SEEN ON THE INTERNET
FROM A DRONE
At a barely wet waterhole, now mostly mud, six giraffes struggle. Four of them lay flat on the mud, legs splayed, stuck, but their legs can be seen still working to push themselves to the water. One, however, instead of pushing herself ahead is trying to propel a small giraffe calf toward the remaining potable water in the shrinking pond. The little one’s gentle head is down, tongue out. His lighter body skims over the mud as he stretches toward the remaining, likely brackish, water.
I don’t know if any of these gentle creatures survived. The drone did not return but I am sure of one thing—that mother giraffe’s love for child is greater than her own thirst, even her will to live.
(prev. pub. on Flash Flood)
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
RAIN, FOR OR AGAINST?
—Joan Leotta
There is a middle ground
between the two, peopled by
folks who, when rain’s
rooftop blows let up,
rush outside to hunt rainbows.
I used to be like that.
__________________
Newcomer Joan Leotta is a North Carolina resident who plays with words on page and stage. She performs tales of food, family, strong women. Internationally published as an essayist, poet, short story writer, and novelist, she’s a two-time Pushcart nominee, a Best of the Net nominee, and a 2022 runner-up in Robert Frost Competition. Her essays, poems, CNF, and fiction appear in Impspired, Ekphrastic Review, Verse Visual, Verse Virtual, Gargoyle, Silver Birch, Yellow Mama, Mystery Tribune, Ovunquesiamo, Synkroniciti, MacQueen’s Quinterly, SoFLoPoJo, and many others in the US, UK, Australia, Germany, and more. Her poetry chapbooks are Languid Lusciousness with Lemon from Finishing Line Press (Amazon), and Feathers on Stone, published by Main Street Rag and available at
https://mainstreetragbookstore.com/product/feathers-on-stone-joan-leotta/.
Other Joan Leotta books include Morning by Morning and Dancing Under the Moon, two free mini-chapbooks available at https://www.origamipoems.com/poets/257-joan-leotta/. For information on her four out-of-print novels, collection of short stories and four children's picture books, contact her at joanleotta@gmail.com/.
Welcome to the Kitchen, Joan, and don’t be a stranger!
_____________________
—Medusa, reminding those in the Pacific time zone to set clocks back if you haven’t done so already!
Joan Leotta
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
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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; 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!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today):
llama in a brown
overcoat sleeps in
a field, soaks up
the luxury of
the noonday sun…
