Welcoming You Home

 —Poetry by Michael H. Brownstein, 

Jefferson City, MO
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

NEW YEAR’S LULLABY
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

This New Year’s—
let your dreams blossom into color,
let their perfume waft into your essence.
Now—
wake up, child.
You are much older now.
Open your window.
Let the sunshine in.
Let its warmth form your smile.
Let its light welcome you home.

_____________________

 

Today's LittleNip:

 

Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come, whispering, "It will be happier". 

 

—Alfred Lord Tennyson

 

_____________________ 

—Medusa, thanking Michael Brownstein for his poem today, and wishing all of you a year full of light in 2024!

 

 

 

 “Let your dreams blossom into color…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

Familiar Territory

—Poetry by Wayne Russell, South East Ohio
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy 

of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

familiar territory

the bell tolls
four o'clock
I start my stroll
across the grassy knoll
into a sea of death
red brick walls
around souls locked away
winter has banished
us into the throes
of hades
that frozen abyss
that familiar territory
a bitter sting

 

 

 

OFF THE GRID

Approach the night
galloping legions of
mythical creatures
drawn up from lucid
dreams.

Waters freeze as do
stars fazed diamond
dimension morphed.

Sounds of bird nor bat
shall rattle senses now
caged.

Approach the night
ocean tide surrender
fading into shoreline.

We have faded from
stage of life the radar
can no longer detect
our whereabouts.

 

 

 

 
 

PTSD

At 18
I dropped out of college
and eloped with the Army,

boot camp was hell, and
it sounded like a metal trash
bin being thrown against the

wall at 4am; Satan sounded
like a drill sergeant named
Tower.

I was his "own special project"
he robbed me of the old me and

like a lifeless lump of clay, he
molded me into the broken

"warrior" here before you now,
writing this horrible poem;

a poet without a heart or soul,
just a man longing to go backwards

in time, living life for me, this time;
I could have been "the something"

that I knew I could be, "the something"
that mother & father said I would never
ever be.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

You never change things by fighting the existing reality. To change something, build a new model that makes the existing model obsolete.

―Buckminster Fuller

____________________

Wayne Russell visits us in the Kitchen occasionally (since 2010!), and we’re glad to have him back with us today. Wayne is a creative writer who was born and raised in Florida; when he first visited us, he lived in New Zealand. He moved to Ohio in late 2016. His first book of poems, Where Angels Fear, was published by Guerilla Genius Press in 2020 and is available on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com.au/Where-Angels-Fear-Wayne-Russell/dp/B087HFGT26/. His second book of poetry is titled Splinter of the Moon and will be available via Silver Bow Publishing in early 2024. Welcome back to the Kitchen, Wayne!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Wayne Russell

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

As The Year Turns

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Joe Nolan, and Caschwa

DECEMBER PASTORAL

Rainy day,
only a barnyard rooster—feathers
black-char & burnished flame—
across the way. I’ve been reading news
from Paris, replacement weathervane,
golden phoenix-rooster wings of flame
striving to heaven, lifted by crane
to Notre-Dame steeple newly-made
from fire. But this is just an everyday
barnyard rooster, with a white
goat and spotted pig assembling
round the manger—it’s feeding-time
in the rain.

 

 

 

 

RAIN SONG

I’m in Frogg Toggs,
Loki wears her all-weather sable coat.
Welcome the rain on my face, in my eyes,

and a frog sings from a water-
summoning ditchlet, let the drops come
as we need them.

And another frog joins in from across
the track, we’ve all had enough
of the droughty itch,

and a frog chorus all along the trail
singing the Welcome Rain Song
for me and my dog.

____________________

DESERTED TRAIL

“No Trespassing” on every side
just straight ahead or back again—
and since my dog must be my guide,
I let her choose the where and when.

And since my dog must be my guide
if bear or big cat’s on the prowl,
I watch her close. She sniffs the air
or listens for a distant howl.

I watch her close, she sniffs the air—
it might be squirrel, rabbit, deer
or news from yonder who knows where.
Her ears and tail say not to fear.

 

 

 

8:51 QUESTIONS

Walking my dog at random thru town, I spotted
a beer can abandoned on a concrete wall. Recyclable.
I picked it up—heavy to the hand. Practically full.  
Set it down again, someone may be coming back
for it. At 8:51 a.m.? Why would someone take
a few sips or a big glug from a one-pint can
of beer between the down-home café
and child advocacy center? I travel light.
The question’s too much for me to handle.

 

 

 

 

YEAR’S END JOURNEY

A break from holiday craziness. Out of town,
east on a winding 2-lane and we’re free in forest,
heading into the Caldor burn-scar.
Lots of clearing and cleanup since October,
churned up soil, nothing growing—creating new
fire breaks. Slash-piles big as a house;
streaks of char among healthy forest; and then
stretches of nothing but skeleton trees
as the road climbs. At last, stop. Park the car,
let Loki out. Walk the burn, cataloguing signs
of life. Sprouts of manzanita, deerbrush,
ceanothus; seedling pine and incense cedar;
mosses. Fresh deer prints in mud.
Cufleaf blackberry, great mullein. A few
drops of congealed blood—looks recent.
Shell casings of many colors. I’m not
the only visitor here; but I came for a different
purpose. Call it curiosity. Call it looking
for a forest healing, for new life.

 

 

 

 

EXTENDING FAMILY

Dog and cat, visiting turkeys too peripatetic to be considered family. Then the doe in early summer stole my garden, sprout by sprout, presumptuous as landlord. Garden gone, she gave the grace of twin fawns like skittish kids I’m careful not to scare lest they be roadkill on the speeding 2-lane. She has a cousin, doe with fawn, moved in, there’s room a-plenty. Now it’s the season when a young buck’s fancy turns to thoughts of love. The deer are plush with winter grasses, the pastoral family grows and grows.

 

 

 

 

 

Today's LittleNip: 

WESTERN HILL   
—Taylor Graham

This
mushroom
deep dark as
chocolate rimmed
with butterscotch arose
under our fallen Black Oak.
Amanita augusta might
be edible or not, they say.
I say, just let it be. Let it be
the deep dark mystery, the death of oak.

____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for helping usher us into a new year with her fine poetry and photos. Once upon a time, she formed one-third of the Meduskateeers—three poets (TG, Katy Brown, and D.R. Wagner) who collaborated on poems and had them posted here in the Kitchen. This week, we were all saddened to learn of D.R. Wagner’s passing (see last Saturday’s post at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2023/12/good-newsyoure-perfect.html/). So the Three Meduskateers are no longer. We will all miss D.R. and his wonderful poetry.

Forms Taylor has sent us this week include an Etheree (“Western Hill”); a Pastoral (“December Pastoral”); a Three Moon Pattern (“Deserted Trail”); and a Fable / Prose Poem (“Extending Family”). The Three Moon Pattern and the Fable were last week’s Triple-F Challenge, and the Pastoral was from the week before.

Monday is New Year’s, of course, and coming up next week in the new year in Placerville is an Ekphrastic workshop on Thursday with Lara Gularte at the Switchboard Gallery. Then, on the following Thursday (1/11), a reading will be held there for the works generated at Lara’s workshop. And don’t forget that Taylor Graham and Katy Brown (the remaining Meduskateers) will be facilitating a workshop at Wakamatsu Farm on Jan. 21; make reservations now.

For news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area.

And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! 

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)

 

There’s also a page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

We received responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo from Nolcha Fox and Stephen Kingsnorth:


WAITING FOR A FUTURE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

They gaze between pillars and green leaves
to search the horizon where water meets sky.
They’ll look out forever, they don’t understand
that their ship can’t come in when the river is shallow.

* * *

THE NORDIC LINE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

No ballad on the balustrade,
two leaning posts some lake apart—
beyond the pale where glass reflects;
we know there’s story in converse—
but what of theirs—some contretemps?
Arms folded, others cuffed, as bound,
the distant gaze of ill portends,
with heavy tree, darker in sound—
can pinks be shepherds’ warning, dawn?

But no, this is of Nordic light,
Midsommar, summer solstice height,
as Prince Eugen and Karin Pyk,
royal and singer, contemplate
the landscape in a Swedish take.
So I assume from my context—
assign romance mystique to them—
when artist Sven, his sole intent,
to glory in what’s nature’s scent.

So canvas first the craftsman’s art,
their story, movement, training class,
or else translation moves apart,
just as the poles and protocols
observed, or not, by inference—
as at a stroke, airbrush what’s there.
What is at stake is Bergh’s true view,
equality, the raised profile,
of women in an equal stance.

* * *

Here are a couple of timely Quatrains (with rhyme scheme) from Joe Nolan:

 

 

 

TIME’S WRATH
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

In our happy graveyard,
Our lovely killing-field,
We live our lives in splendor
As though they’d never yield

To things that come unbeckoned,
Unwanted and forlorn,
That spoil all our merriment—
Time’s wrath so full of scorn.

* * *

And an Ars Poetica by Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz) which uses the repeating line, the Repetend, to sneak home its point about these things getting delayed. And delayed. And delayed...

 

 

 

IN THE WORKS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

I would love to sell you my book
some memories pertain to you
yes, I will sign it and leave a nice
personal note that you will proudly
treasure

However it is not quite done yet,
not quite started yet,
not first in line

there are countless photos my
older brother sent me, some I
don’t recognize, some I do
so I bought a photo album to
mount all those pictures, review
them from time to time

However it is not quite done yet,
not quite started yet,
not first in line

the house needs to be deep-cleaned
and de-cluttered big time, lots of stuff,
some has a market value, some does
not, some had some meaning to my
late wife, complete mystery to me,
maybe if I play my cards right, I
can hire someone to help me

However it is not quite done yet,
not quite started yet,
not first in line

guess I’ll have to begin the book
with a title, a titillating title that
is just strange enough to send
all readers to their spell check
maybe later, tomorrow…

However it is not quite done yet,
not quite started yet,
not first in line

___________________

Many thanks to our SnakePals for their brave fiddling! Would you like to be a SnakePal? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

___________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!    

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) How about some Serpentine Verse? Some sources say it applies only to lines of poetry, but some say it can apply to stanzas, as well. You decide, and write us a poem that somehow uses Serpentine Verse:

•••Serpentine Verse: https://www.britannica.com/art/serpentine-verse

•••AND/OR follow Taylor Graham’s lead with an Etheree (see her example above):

•••Etheree: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/etheree.html

•••AND/OR, like TG did, write us a Prose Poem:

 

•••Prose Poem: https://www.masterclass.com/articles/understanding-prose-poetry

 

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic photo.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Fresh Eyes”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry 
•••Etheree: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/etheree.html
•••Fable: http://www.poeticbyway.com/gl-f.html
•••Pastoral Poetry: poets.org/glossary/pastoral AND/OR 4thstcog.com/theology/what-are-the-characteristics-of-pastoral-poetry.html AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-pastoral-poem-learn-about-the-conventions-and-history-of-pastoral-poems-with-examples/, A short pastoral poem is called an Eclogue (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eclogue), also an Idyll or a Madrigal.
•••Prose Poem: https://www.masterclass.com/articles/understanding-prose-poetry

•••Quatrain: www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-a-quatrain-in-poetry-quatrain-definition-with-examples
•••Repetend: http://www.poeticbyway.com/gl-r.html
•••Serpentine Verse: https://www.britannica.com/art/serpentine-verse
•••Three Moon Pattern: Syllabic, three quatrains, 8-syllable lines; x a BR a  |  BR  c  DR  c  |  DR  e  x  e  | DR  e  x  e. Content based on the Chinese Quatrain, as follows:
    ▪    Opening line introduces an idea.
    ▪    Second line extends the idea
    ▪    Third line introduces a new idea
    ▪    Fourth line brings first three lines together

___________________

—Medusa, withing you a happy Kwanzaa, and hoping you’re able to find all the words you need in the new year! 

 

 

 

  Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 
 Make what you can of today's
photo, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain


















 
 
 

For info about 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.

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.

 

 

 

Let Me Decide in the Future

 —Poetry and Visuals by
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal,
West Covina, CA 

WHEN DEATH ASKS ME HOW I WANT TO DIE

I cannot decide.
There are too many choices.
Let me decide in the future.

I cannot decide.
For years I have lived.
So much time has passed.
I will only have one death.
When the time comes to decide
I will ask for another day.

There are so many ways to go.
The decision will not be easy.
Let me decide in the future.

I cannot decide.
Because I have not done
this or that, I need more time.
Let it ruminate in my mind.
That’s all I ask.
Let me savor my youth a while longer.

How long do I have?
I will only have one death.
Let me decide in the future.
I need to make amends.
I will ask for one more day and another.
I will only have one death.

 

 

 

 

THINKING OF TOMORROW

I go to sleep
thinking
of tomorrow
and all the work
waiting
at my desk. I

curse tomorrow
but I
will not call out
sick. I reserve
those days
for holidays,

where I can stretch
a day
off into two
or maybe three
days where
I sleep without

a thought of what’s
waiting
at my desk. I
just hope I don’t
have a
dream about work.

 

 

 

 

I DON’T KNOW

I don’t know
if I can blow
the candles out.
I just don’t know.

But I’ll try
my strongest sigh.
It might just work
or maybe not.

The years come
cursed and often.
These days I block
the door with bricks

and things to
keep the years out.
I roll my eyes
or gaze inward.
I don’t know why.

 

 

 

BORDERS DISAPPEAR

Borders disappear
into low skies.
Space becomes aloof
with no point of view.
The forest is inhabited
by white cows that
sleep under a bridge
most of the day.
On the other side of
the bridge an old troll
helps itself to one cow.
It likes red meat.
It will talk with its mouthful
about it. Before day
turns to night, there
is a moment when the
sun turns black and
there is nothing that
explains it. At the end of
the forest, life withdraws,
and nothing matters.

 

 

 

 

MAKE A LIFE
After Vincenzo Cardarelli

Here it makes its nest.
Here it seeks out peace.
I am like that bird with
thoughts always in flight.

I make a life with
water, food, and work. I
seek the quietness
of that bird at sea.

To live in the air—
that would be the life.

________________

WITH YOUR WORDS
After Oscar Cerruto

Lift me up
with your words
of kindness.

Caress me
like a new-
born baby.

Dress me up
with warmth and
brand new duds.

Kiss me all
over with
your sweet words.

Please do not
devour me
with those words.

 

 

 

 

 

LEAVING MY SENSES

I am leaving
my senses.
My senses leave
my sick mind.
How strange do I
turn sometimes.
My mind goes numb
with screws loose.
I want to move
away to
a place where my
mind is free.
There must be a
place for me.
I am leaving
my senses
before my mind
leaves me.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.

― Søren Kierkegaard

___________________

—Medusa, thanking Luis Berriozábal for his fine art and poetry this morning!

 

 

 

 

—Sketch by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

Sensory Overload

 —Poetry by Sterling Warner, Union, Washington
—Art Courtesy of Public Domain 

ANDROMEDA’S DIGITS

Body bent over the stove     preparing a omelet
Andromeda’s chipped nails poked through      
fingerless gloves
grasping spatulas   serving spoons   pasta strainers

peeling potatoes   Andromeda scraped her knuckle
on a cheese grater     but never missing a beat
as a domestic goddess     to be worshipped and
revered;

brothers and sisters     critiqued her seasonings
prizing     her crispy red peppers in particular
not one to disappoint    she allowed them to bicker

each food connoisseur     a pseudo aficionado     
competed
for rock chain approval     while Andromeda     
nibbled cuticles     
admired her gothic digits     munched on     flaky
crimson polish

 

 

 

 

SENSORY OVERLOAD CADRALOR
 

I.    Hyperstimulation

Lights out, alarms non-responsive,
blacken galaxies devoid of nightglow
provide no starry compass, awareness,
or sense of belonging; sudden sirens blare,
aircraft signals shimmer and shine above
resembling the London blitzkrieg
busting humanity’s seams physically,
intellectually, as neighborhoods radiate
Las Vegas splendor & guarded secrets.


II.    Conical Squeeze     

21st century wicked witches prefer burial
under assorted yarn to skyfall Kansas farmhouses;
flat on their backs, their magic instincts
remain intact, ebon and white leotards
clean, vibrant, void of runs, ruby sequin
slippers unhampered yet overwhelmed
by so called progress; there  primary hybrid,
native, and social apps defy complacency
crush Glinda and Theodora without prejudice.


III.    Barista

Hairless hobbit fingers pinch a white porcelain
coffee cup, its miniature handle smaller than a
doughnut hole, daring any index finger—halfling,
human, or elf to piece the small aperture, curl
around the knob & touch one’s thumb creating
a perfect circle; lifting the vessel towards lips
puffed, prepared, anxious to partake the “cafe corvo,”
the barista draws java to her open mouth, inhaling
clouds
of steamy expresso, savoring orange chocolate &
cinnamon.


IV.    Umiak Sunset

Alone in a kayak my double-sided paddle
strokes a liquid mirror; blades break the glassy,
placid calm of Lake Vivian as they slice
through the medium, displace water, create troughs.
Most fellow mariners nod, others curse as they pass
alongside me in catamarans, trawlers, sailboats,
cruisers, and canoes as my vessel’s hydrodynamic
turbulence sends wake after wake, left to right
surging, lapping, ebbing, rocking undulating port
and starboard bows.


V.     Metamorphosis   

Sights, sounds, touches, tastes, odors
cannot converge, contain, or overcome bodies
momentarily revived like living dead walking
amid a corporeal onslaught; crossing arms
express attitude, fight off more than chills,
piercing glances perceive mysteries beyond
literal revelations, acknowledge objects
& creatures once ignored, celebrate reborn senses
that emerge from an epiphany’s chrysalis. 

 

 

 

 

CHARCOAL MARQUEE

geminid showers
december skies set ablaze
night tar on fire

Black Friday constellation rushes
overhead like consumer comets
chasing a once in lifetime
rare galaxy extravaganza—
shooting stars that cross our path
with brisk determination deprive
our opportunity to wish upon a future
where fireball trains flare
across the cosmos,
lifting its tail like a skunk
teasing, flirting, denying us
the purity and promise found
in an intergalactic time capsule.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Write with the door closed, rewrite with the door open.

—Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

_____________________

—Medusa, welcoming Sterling Warner back to the Kitchen today, with thanks for his fine poetry! More can be seen of Sterling and his poetry books at https://www.amazon.com/author/amazon.com_sterling.warner/. 

 

 

 

 

 Sterling Warner

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

Of God Or Angels

 

Looking At The Day
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam 

GRAY GULL
—Joyce Odam
After Silence by Wonsook Kim Linton, 1990

A gray gull at rest on my tireless hand has three
echoes made of silence. We are in a painting on a
still day. A body of blue water lies between us and
the hills.

The gull and I look at each other with a long trained
look—my hand held out in a gesture of release—or
as a brief place for it to rest. The day does not move.

Three sympathetic trees stand crowded at an edge.
They are there to hold the echoes. I am faceless. I
wear a white baptismal gown. I stand on my shadow.

The mute trees watch—the three gull-echoes ghost-
like in their branches. However this will end is not
for me to know : this is a lesson in patience.

 

 

 

 Dropping The Moon

INSOMNIA XXI
—Robin Gale Odam

crescendo of night
silver light through window blind
whisper of a song
syncopated memory
hollow night, echo of prayer

                           
(prev. pub. in Brevities, August 2017)

____________________

NIGHT BIRD STOLEN FROM
A GRAY CANVAS
—Joyce Odam
After Night Bird by Wonsook Kim Linton, 1990

Small dream bird, I hold you through the prison
of sleep while an old black brooding hawk watches
from night’s dark tree and hunches itself over the
release of waking, which has its own landscape of
terrors.

How will I save you when my hand is offering you
flight away from this dream; why do you tarry in
patient trust like a careless omen of yourself?

Are you the signature of life? Symbols surround
us—surreal and dense—merging to a collage of
mystery. We share this brief connection: I give you
my fear so you can translate it into flight—yet you
stay with me.

                                                                        
(prev. pub. in Parting Gifts, Winter 2003, and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/5/18)

 

 

 

 All My Love

 

now my heart for you
pressed into a little poem
one leaf in your book
 

—Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

 Return

SILENCE AS ITS OWN DESIRE
—Joyce Odam
After “DESIRING SILENCE: Holy Island”
from Lamlash by Craigie Aitchison, 1994

The blue boat waits on its reflection,
soundless on the motionless water.

The boat is empty and takes this time to sleep.
It knows where both the shores are.

It knows how to go back and forth between.
It lives in the cool shadow of the mountain.

The mountain guards the sunlight.
The water holds the mountain in its depth.

The boat floats on the mountain.
Time is measureless.

The water holds the boat like a trick of reality.
The boat does not keep time.

Time sleeps in the blue silence of the boat.
The boat dreams of the silence.

The red sky drowns in its own reflection.
The calm water bleeds every day at this hour.
                                                    
 
(prev. pub. in Poetry Now, 2008, and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/11/12, 2/4/14, 9/1/15)

____________________

THE MIRROR DREAMS OF ITSELF

—Joyce Odam

After Nachtwandler by Emil Nolde

At last the blue lady of night comes floating
toward me with a look of sorrow on her face.
A black moon follows over her shoulder. She
floats through all the dissolving dream-colors
that are losing their hold on her. She reaches
out one arm as if to embrace me while with
the other she holds a small fluttering shape of
something close to her dress. Where am I?
Where am I? I cannot find myself, though I
feel that she will find me. The waiting mirror
seems to be opening its glass for her as she
comes toward it and she seems dazed by her
own reflection. She is trying to speak! I am
trying to speak! Am I the mirror?

 

 

 

The Gift

 

INTONATION
—Joyce Odam

God—Jesus—Holy—Spirit,
new mantra—old mantra,
say it and say it,
for blessing,
for fear—
fear and love,
hope and doubt,
how undo the tangle,
untie the threads,
how bend the angle,
the angle dreads being recanted,
each day narrows and begins,
the old beginnings,
old thought,
new thought,
being said,
do it over, now is now,
then is now, now is never,
but allow hope to squander
every increment of time :
the day is here, the day is gone,
question remains, questions remain,
slant inward, outward, feel the strain,
we are holy, fame is fame, we slip in
and out of ourselves,
not knowing.

 

 

 

 The Band

 

 
OF GOD OR ANGELS
—Robin Gale Odam

it was something he said about
the eyes of god or angels—the boy
explained, to underline my chaos, that
pain and sorrow are only mine without them
or through them, or—he speaks like that,
his own eyes soft and dark

i answered, oh
                            

(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2015) 

 

 

 

 Happy

THE RESORT IN WINTER
—Joyce Odam
After a photo by Teresa Tamura,
“I Am Becoming the Woman I’ve Wanted”,
Papier Mache Press

Pull on black stockings. Dress for the day,
for the winter outside. Put on a long skirt
and a warm sweater. Layer yourself until
you are fit for the layering weather.

Put on boots. Leave the small bathroom
with its steamy mirror. Look to the day
which is passing by. Speak to yourself
about nothing in particular.

Walk down to the ocean; watch the gulls,
the waves; then turn to the town with its
little stores. Browse deeply for some
souvenir.

This is a holiday from your daily self; give
it a difference; study each new reflection
in each new glass or pulling shadow where
you walk, aimless and distracted.  

You are here, and here is enough to be.
This day will be a turning point for you.
Turn when it does, back or forward
to the old or new.


(prev. pub. in EDGZ, Winter/Spring 2003,
and Medusa’s Kitchen 1/21/14)

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

OF NOTE :

He will be—he will be,
in heaven, as in heart,
belovéd creature—

on this day we mark
on heart’s own calendar—there
to be forever love’s holy spark.


—Joyce Odam

______________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for their works today on the Seed of the Week: The Holiday Season—and the best of the coming year to both of them!

Our new Seed of the Week is a hope for the new year: “Fresh Eyes”. 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.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo

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!