—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
of Nolcha Fox
First snow points a loaded gun
at the face of autumn. It robs the trees of velvet red and yellow gold. It locks the sun in a vault, and etches glass in snowflake whites and grays. It hides ice under an inviting blanket of white, and laughs at broken bones. It freezes late flowers foolish enough to drink the waning light. First snow wants to keep us home because it is a bully.
at the face of autumn. It robs the trees of velvet red and yellow gold. It locks the sun in a vault, and etches glass in snowflake whites and grays. It hides ice under an inviting blanket of white, and laughs at broken bones. It freezes late flowers foolish enough to drink the waning light. First snow wants to keep us home because it is a bully.
Climate Crisis
You’re too hot
and I’m too cold.
You open up the windows
in a blizzard.
I wear two thermal tops,
a sweater, coat,
and Sherpa boots
in summer when you
set the thermostat at 55.
My nose is always running,
my lips are cracked
and blistered,
while you go shirtless,
almost naked
as you shovel snow.
Our marriage frozen solid,
about to crack wide open,
until we mediate
this climate crisis in our home.
Snow-heavy sky
and your need for me
crush my chest, tether me.
I tear at you, draw blood,
to fly free from you,
to fly above the clouds.
Don’t Marry What You Can’t Control
Marriage doesn’t suit the wind.
It can’t sit still, its whimsy
takes it anywhere.
It sticks its nose in every nook
and whispers secrets, bursts
with sudden violence.
It doesn’t care if you are ruined,
it has no loyalty.
You can’t domesticate the wind,
divorce is your best recourse.
Marriage doesn’t suit the wind.
It can’t sit still, its whimsy
takes it anywhere.
It sticks its nose in every nook
and whispers secrets, bursts
with sudden violence.
It doesn’t care if you are ruined,
it has no loyalty.
You can’t domesticate the wind,
divorce is your best recourse.
Hope is a dope
to believe every crisis
is part of the plot
that will lead to an ending
where happiness
takes a deep bow.
Hope jumping from rooftop
is certainly worse than
a bad case of clarity
ready for ultimate end.
Wide Open
You’re just a speck upon our rock,
surf and sky wide open.
The fog rolls in, envelopes you.
When it lifts, it leaves with you.
Perhaps you were a fantasy
bewildered eyes pulled from a dream.
I shuffle back to life of one.
Just in case, I leave the door
wide open.
You’re just a speck upon our rock,
surf and sky wide open.
The fog rolls in, envelopes you.
When it lifts, it leaves with you.
Perhaps you were a fantasy
bewildered eyes pulled from a dream.
I shuffle back to life of one.
Just in case, I leave the door
wide open.
Blue Door and the Cat
Open doors beckon a curious cat
who wonders why metal
is skewered with holes,
if blue is just rust
or on purpose.
The doors do not answer.
The kitty gets bored.
The doors keep their secrets
forever.
Visitors
They bust the door
and rush inside
without a wave hello,
too rude to sit for coffee cake
and chat about the
vegetables that grow
in my back garden.
They want to carry me away
in zipped-up bag and gurney.
They check their notes and see
they should be somewhere else, not here.
But heart attack and cancer
promise they’ll be back
another day.
What Will They Make of This?
If future archeologists
dig up a high school bathroom,
they’ll scratch their heads
in wonderment at what
they could have found.
The scribble etched
on every plane is crude
and rude, and heathen.
The artwork is uncivilized,
it’s not of this time period.
What are these seats
that open and are stuffed
with globby paper?
These savages should be deleted
from the human record.
Surprise
I decide to bake a cake
with what’s left in the kitchen.
Who cares if sugar is all clumped
and flour has suspicious specks
that could be slowly moving?
Who cares that eggs were left
on top of the refrigerator?
Who cares that oil had long expired
and milk smells somewhat funky?
I’m sure the dogs will eat it all
when the cake falls on the floor.
Something Smells Funny
I’m in a rage,
smoke shoots out my ears.
Thoughts collide, they spark.
My hair’s on fire.
I’m the latest case
of spontaneous
human combustion.
The rug burns black.
Furniture fabric
crisps and peels.
He calls out from the other room,
Do you smell something burning?
Did I Eat That?
My home is void of tasty food.
My pantry free of flour, sugar, chocolate
that could transform to dainty treats.
My shelves are gluten-free
and fat is banned from my front door.
But in my dreams, I load my plate
with jelly donuts, carrot cake,
granola, fudge, and cheesy bread.
I wake to find I’ve grown two sizes
since I went to bed.
My pants don’t fit above my knees.
I rip the seams of shirts.
Is that why DIET really means
Did I Eat That food?
______________________
Today's LittleNip:
Another Ghost
—Nolcha Fox
I see your silver hair, your pale face,
the pain you drag across the floor.
You fade before my eyes,
I can’t keep you here.
Although we laugh around the line
that swells, dividing life and death,
I know one day, you’ll only be
another ghost that haunts
the shadows of my tears.
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for her fine poetry today. Nolcha’s latest book, Cancer Isn't Just A Constellation: Writing Through My Mother's Diagnosis and Death, was written during her mother’s illness and passing, and it’s available at https://medium.com/@nolchafox_14571/cancer-isnt-just-a-constellation-49edaf0a2862/.
Another Ghost
—Nolcha Fox
I see your silver hair, your pale face,
the pain you drag across the floor.
You fade before my eyes,
I can’t keep you here.
Although we laugh around the line
that swells, dividing life and death,
I know one day, you’ll only be
another ghost that haunts
the shadows of my tears.
______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for her fine poetry today. Nolcha’s latest book, Cancer Isn't Just A Constellation: Writing Through My Mother's Diagnosis and Death, was written during her mother’s illness and passing, and it’s available at https://medium.com/@nolchafox_14571/cancer-isnt-just-a-constellation-49edaf0a2862/.
—Photo 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!
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!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)
shrill voice
of the hawk
echoes
my friend in pain…