—Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Illustrations Courtesy of Public Domain
—Illustrations Courtesy of Public Domain
THE SCULPTOR
A large, moist block of clay awaited his touch and imagination. It stood on a solid wood pedestal and was covered with damp cloths to keep it supple and to prevent the studio air from drying it.
Ah, the air, a variety of musty, vaporous odors, a treat for his nostrils as he entered the room each morning. The air told of the clay's origins and composition. It brought images of plants, trees, and animals, decomposed, buried deep inside the huge lump of clay.
To the sculptor, it was as though they were there in the room alive again, a wild forest of long ago, creatures ambling through shrubs and grasses. Behind trees caches of badgers, beavers, spiraling snakes, foxes, and wolves, with their animal scents, co-existing, moving about among the vegetation, consuming it as they went.
He reached inside the moist clay to reveal the scene, first with his hands and fingers, then an arm, and found a baby deer. The deer looked at him curiously, lovingly. Its ears curved as leaves curve. The sculptor caressed its bowed head. With a cutting tool he carefully carved the rest of its graceful body from the dense mound of clay.
He continued passionately, digging in deep to find as many forms of life as he could. He must release them all, bring them back to life again. They were counting on him.
A large, moist block of clay awaited his touch and imagination. It stood on a solid wood pedestal and was covered with damp cloths to keep it supple and to prevent the studio air from drying it.
Ah, the air, a variety of musty, vaporous odors, a treat for his nostrils as he entered the room each morning. The air told of the clay's origins and composition. It brought images of plants, trees, and animals, decomposed, buried deep inside the huge lump of clay.
To the sculptor, it was as though they were there in the room alive again, a wild forest of long ago, creatures ambling through shrubs and grasses. Behind trees caches of badgers, beavers, spiraling snakes, foxes, and wolves, with their animal scents, co-existing, moving about among the vegetation, consuming it as they went.
He reached inside the moist clay to reveal the scene, first with his hands and fingers, then an arm, and found a baby deer. The deer looked at him curiously, lovingly. Its ears curved as leaves curve. The sculptor caressed its bowed head. With a cutting tool he carefully carved the rest of its graceful body from the dense mound of clay.
He continued passionately, digging in deep to find as many forms of life as he could. He must release them all, bring them back to life again. They were counting on him.
SURVIVAL
From day to day, all in all, life is tragic.
It passes with a flutter of the wind.
Survival requires a link between luck and logic,
maintaining a safe and even spin.
All around me things are changing.
Against my will, my world is rearranging.
I have lost so much for which I cared.
Often I wonder what is happening,
what unimaginable horrors await.
I pray to escape, not be trapped in.
I struggle in a prison of fate.
Yet, in spite of not knowing what lies ahead,
my life force is strong. I refuse to lie dead.
From day to day, all in all, life is tragic.
It passes with a flutter of the wind.
Survival requires a link between luck and logic,
maintaining a safe and even spin.
All around me things are changing.
Against my will, my world is rearranging.
I have lost so much for which I cared.
Often I wonder what is happening,
what unimaginable horrors await.
I pray to escape, not be trapped in.
I struggle in a prison of fate.
Yet, in spite of not knowing what lies ahead,
my life force is strong. I refuse to lie dead.
A TURTLE ADAPTS
His shell was his home, not a burden,
though it slowed him down.
What mattered most was security.
He'd pull his head, tail, and feet inside
and rest from the day's travels,
from his journey's travails
and stay still as a rock
while pulling in the sun's rays,
yet cool and undetected, protected.
The journey was long, but it didn't matter.
He had all of eternity to be
peaceful, sheltered, and covered.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
PASSAGE
—Linda Klein
Swift bird, fly on.
Let your strong wings
carry you to new, unknown places.
While I follow with trust and love,
a passenger, shielded beneath
those sure, fanned wings.
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for her fine poetry today!
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!
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)
whirling squirrels
make dervish-rings
around the patient
evergreen~