Big Crimes For Big Times

  Well Come
—Poetry and Visuals by Smith, Cleveland, OH

 

 

I have true tales
tall and tender
tumbling me through time

Yesterdays are never gone
part leach into today
the rest stain tomorrow

What kind of flowers do we make
looping around on the interstate?

Rising sun
setting sun
same sun

Got one shoe on, ready to run

 

 

 

 Transactional
                                                                                                        

The lost lettuce and the lettuce gone

I'm a sun bunny
with no money
and lost bunny glow

Dying lighter
dirty pipe
low on weed

Not beaten
not bowed
just a wee bit bent

Call me sum body in sub-money flow

 

 

 

 Upside Down

It's said as fact
Schrodinger's cat knows it's at
but just exactly where is that that?

In my box
horizontal feels good
after upright fight for day

Now night lilac dark, fragrant
as I seek mythical dragon
to soothe plight

Dead cat rotting, live cat well
which one falling, which one fell?

Who's to tell?

 

 

 

 Spring Cleaning

A little danger on the weekends
a little discipline for the workdays

Rounding underpass darkness
of Dead Man's Curve dead car debris
into sudden full Cleveland sun
clouds jumbled majestically
wind temple turbines turning
bad coffee good grass
a long way to go
and right good to be going

Hey brother, can you spare a dead sparrow?
I've got an Armageddon to enforce

 

 

 

 Employees

I mean well
but well has many meanings
of which I am one

A well is deep
dark
wet or dry

We wail
at the Welling Wall
against woe

My wall
may well
be wrong

Thy all
well may
be right

All in all
don't fall
for the small

It don't smell right

 

 

 

 Highwire

Just saw one leaf slow fall
into sunlight and out again

Sun's 4.6 billion years old
earth's 4.5 billion
tree 30 years
leaf a few months
the shadows are ageless
I'm 78

What're the odds?
me go fast in slow lane

 

 

 

 Future Tense

Starlight moonlight sunlight inner light
stage light walking in and out

We lick our mirrors in fear
of wear and tear and tell all tales

Entropy inertia do it later let it fall
run away hide your head fund financial plan

Up breaks down
down's deep is mushroom town

But what the heck we humans dreck
Earth will shake us from her shoulders

Like virus
like vermin

The trees will last new grass will grow
the seas and sky refill

Plastic atolls tall in water
once again will crawl with life

But right now is big crimes for big times
where money talks, principles walk

I think I wear my weary well
the Earth, however, is tired

Of us

 

 

 

 All Natural

Call me Sisyphus
son of Sisyphus
son of son of son of Sisyphus

Sweat in hot bath
a discordant reality
of pains old and new
hard and softer
some going away
some not
sum knot
old man skin
blotches and blood
soon to be soothed in Moroccan argan oil

Walk naked from bath to wife
put fingers both sides foot-long belly scar
and say solemnly
"I am two become one for you"

She lost it

 

 

 

Good Advice

Today’s LittleNip:

I ache, downright hurt
why should I get out of this chair?

others
service
need
duty
love
future
past
tomorrow
now

or else

—Smith

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Smith (Steven B. Smith) for stopping by the Kitchen today, bringing his wordplay and his insights into “true tales tall and tender”, as the sun creeps into Autumn, and the Solstice hides right over the hill~

 

 

 

 Xit
—Photo by Smith

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poetry Night Reading in Davis
features Tana Jean Welch & Tim Kahl
plus open mic tonight, 7pm.
For info about this and other
future 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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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 Seasons Change

 

—Poetry by Jeanine Stevens, Sacramento, CA

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy 

of Janine Stevens and Joe Nolan

 

 

TEMPERATURE NORMAL   
                                       
Mother said, “Don’t eat chocolate bars       
in summer, they have worms!”                   
Late August, leaves of myrtle curl
and crisp before they turn red.
This heatwave—cataclysmic,
112 on at deck at 8 p.m.
What we wouldn’t give
for lime scented trade winds,
tossing palms, the fragrance of ginger.
Night is more than dark. I nuzzle in.
A/C set too high spews dripping humidity,
hint of mangrove and sea salt.
Slippery, we could hatch all sorts
of swampy things.
Squeaky birds end their songs.
Cicadas cease their rasp and grind.
Tit mouse at the feeder,
beak open, gasping.
I munch on my Butternut candy bar,
no worms, but a stiff splinter of wood.
Don’t eat chocolate in summer.

 

 

 

 

SEPTEMBER ZEN

The Sierra Nevada Mountains on fire.
Overhead, tankers leave McClellan Air Field,
drop red clouds of moisture,
an early blanket for trees, ponds and cabins.
Hoping to sit for a while,
I carry my mug of Earl Grey to the porch,
inhale fragrance that reminds me
of hot springs, scent of cedar.
I taste oil, spice, something of holiday.
A breeze, sun on my shoulders, I’m ready
for late bird song, the flutter of golden river birch.
In the distance, a city lot smoldering.
School in session, the cross country team,
both boys and girls, jog down my road.
I could have great thoughts but prefer an empty
mind.
I sip, steam clears my head—Bergamot,
pleasant like small fires, the ones set for toasting.
Soon I will bake my autumn bread
studded with black walnuts,
air out quilts, take care of what I have.
The senses are challenged; briar rose curls
and drops. The blue-black sage
still pungent as the hummer bends,
dips so deep he almost disappears,
crimson gorget a flash of neon.

 

 

 

 

SCIENCE REQUIREMENT

Outside the window, Mock Orange,
white and green (Botany),
stars hidden by smog (Astronomy).
No study of DNA or excitable neurons.
Wood shop more creative with saws,
electricity and colorful clamps.
Not for girls.
Earthworm—all we could handle.
A simple line, stick pins
to pull the skin apart,
view the alimentary canal.
Thinking about digestion—lunch.
After, the study of vertebrates,
good to see spinal columns and bones.
The hominid model
in the science lab marked delicate,
don’t touch. Instructor livid
when someone put a cigar
between the giant jaws of “early man.”
We don’t know if his feet froze
living at the edge of glaciers.

Next class, Art Appreciation, so easy:
Kahlo, Kandinsky and Klee.

 

 

 

 F. Scott Fitzgerald, Zelda, and Scottie in Paris.

(F. Scott Fitzgerald Papers. Manuscripts Division,
Department of Rare Books and Special Collections.
Princeton University Library)

AT THE LUXEMBOURG GARDENS   

    Photo: Princeton Library
      
Smart dressers these Fitzgeralds,
Zelda’s cloche, fur collar and cuffs,
Scott’s tweed overcoat and gloves,
a cane which seems unnecessary for a man
in his twenties. Earlier, a petite déjeuner—
coffee, croissants, jam and cocoa.

Slant shadows, a wintery afternoon.
The family out for a walk, healthy strides,
they pass others sitting in the sun.
It’s Scottie, who looks boldly at the camera,
a six-year-old’s curiosity. She drags
the hoop, clutches the stick but is walking
too fast to play; pom-poms
on her knit hat bobble and bounce.

The drained pond holds a smattering
of dark leaves, but in summer,
boys in short pants and sailor suits
spend an entire day casting great ships.
See the reflection of the balloon man,
his rounds and oblongs in jellybean colors?

Time seems short: Scott anxious
to finish the last page, Zelda
remembers how well she danced;
Scottie just wants to play.

The Fitzgeralds hurry along, the day darker,
gas lamps soon lit,
time for cocktails at Les Deux Magots. 

 

 

 

SKYLIGHT
                       
February: Snow Moon.
In our all-white kitchen I hesitate,
no hurry to go back to bed.
Beams from the skylight, glacial,
tile countertop arctic. Pewter knobs shine
silver. Candy pink camellias float
in their shallow bowl, prima ballerinas.

So much light I could rearrange my spice shelf,
even bake bread. Here a valentine
with alabaster dove and crimson heart.
The floor a frozen pond.
Snow covers the porch.

When there is no moon, only whispers,
this room becomes a cavern.
I follow walls, grope my way
through dark loam where brown tulips
reach from the Persian rug, look for life.
The beady eye glints on the microwave.

So little sound in all this quiet.
I envision a skylark hovering, words
of Hoagy Carmichael, my heart
riding on her wings: some would say
she sings a gypsy tune serenading the moon.

This scene won’t last—
next month, March: Storm Moon:
cloud cover, different angles, haze,
Skylight a spirit shaft, viewed this way
only once, this bright, only tonight.

Mornings, the kitchen sparkles marigold,
but if fire burns the hills:
tint of old linen.
The hawk high in the redwood,
normally a fluff of grey: a far-off cinder. 

 

 

 

 

NOWHERE TO PUT THE SNOW

I wash crystal goblets,
a wedding gift. Setting the table
for Easter dinner, I place each
on the linen cloth from Nova Scotia.  
Frost dazzles the ground.
Out the window, a pear tree blooms
shocks of white. Just last week,
tiny fists of green. A photo flashes
on the screen, biggest Sierra snowpack
in seventy years. Roads cleared,
driveways still blocked.
I read plans to store the run-off
are totally inadequate, and another
news item about plastic
in drinking water.
I fill goblets from the tap.
Hard to fathom so much beauty
holds the invisible.
Roast lamb, carrots, greens,
Chantilly cake and Korbel Rosé.
Even though we know,
even so, it will taste good to us.

 

 

 

SAD DICTIONARY

We all need a shore leave off this boat
going nowhere with its forbidden
floor show and grand buffets of wax fruit.

Looking down, yellow green algae
in a super bloom obscures chlorophyll.
What will happen to the food fish below?

Other gaudy phenomena: fluorescent crust
on animal, vegetable; insects changing color
       confusing their mates.

I no longer believe in those who
use magic to their own advantage.
“Glum you say,” of course—haze,
       smoke all summer, season of gloom.

August, broken and faded: sagging
easy chair, spilled bleach on a favorite shirt.

 

 

 

 

EMPTY CAFÉ

Among debris left by the refuse truck—
a note resting on a stone.
Written in red ink, old country dialects
speak of wide avenues, palm trees,
damaged fountains. Around the edge,
other phrases in calligraphy: an unpaid debt,
a lost urn overflowing with ashes
like faded confetti.
I put the note in my pocket.
Now rain, the day too cool
for a sidewalk café.
On a porch, a man, shirtless,
looking like Gandhi,
sits at his spinning wheel.
Short cut through a deserted orchard,
thick leaves, just a few steps—
I’m hydroplaning over rotting apples.
Nearing my B & B, I realize I left
my camera on that stone.
Still wearing my coat, the fine wool
gives a sense of luxury as I climb the stairs
in the acrid scent of yesterday’s tallow.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I long for my garden to be complete. Working in it is one of my joys, but it will never be finished because it’s forever changing with the seasons.

—Mary Quant

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to long-time SnakePal Jeanine Stevens for today’s fine poetry! Watch for a new book from Jeanine coming later this Fall, No Lunch Among the Daystars, from Cold River Press at https://coldriverpress.com/.../AUT.../stevens/no%20lunch.htm/.

 

 

 

Coming soon!

 

A reminder that
Lara Gularte’s Ekphrastic workshop
takes place in Placerville
today, 5:30pm.
For info about this and other
future 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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

"So much light..."
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cobwebby Shadows

 Meow

 —Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Joyce Odam

 

 

When I am in a certain mood,

feeling black about certain things
(though not as big as wars,
or famine, or something
as small as bee stings)
but more like the broken heart
love has occasionally,
or a bad hair day
or any irksome
turn that ruins a day,
and I, truly morbid now,
am building to a mood
for dark music, low lights,
and doors closed against everything
when all I can think of (grateful
for the comic relief it seems), am
down to cobwebby shadows, strong
black coffee and black jelly beans.

—Joyce Odam


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/29/15; 12/1/20)

 

 

 

Storyteller

THE WHITE DREAM—2
—Joyce Odam

In the dream again, two white egrets in a
quiet pond making ripples where they

always choose to be—two resting egrets
that I can learn from. They always hold

the meanings that transfer their instinct
into mine—light shifted from the

moon that will not cross again, this dream
dominion. What could I learn from this,

this tranquil moment before the answer
drew me awake into the brimming

silence startled back into the white
shadows of my sleep?

 

 

 

 Herself

DUST
—Robin Gale Odam

He took the best of her poetry
with him—he is gone away

She can barely remember—
there are stuttering consonants

and vowels unfolding,
the pencil in the heavy green jar

and the dry paper with curled edges,
and the little box of matches

and the candle blown out—
she cannot fathom the ache in her

bosom, the mark on the calendar,
the cold diamond on her hand

____________________________

WITHOUT VOLITION
—Joyce Odam

I would
that I were
caught in that
space of indifference
to be completely without
the complexities and care
that are so heavy—I would
that I could float within
myself and be safe—
surrender to all my
entanglements
and they be gone
  because I finally release them

 

 

 

Roadrunner

 

THOSE SONGS KEPT FOREVER
OUT OF HEARING
—Joyce Odam

I have dreamed them, soft as lullabies
from ache of childhood,

songs that come in fragments
and tease—

tease for the missing line
or word,

songs that haunt like a broken need—
old, lost songs—sung only by the ghosts.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/7/18; 4/12/22)

 

 

 

Bringing Time

 

THE DAY
—Robin Gale Odam

A way of being
somewhere in time—  

clockwork in a garden,
desire poised as shadow,             

measure of lament sung,  
harmony and counterpoint,

silver sheen of heaven,
yearning tempered. 

 

 

 

 Thought

MIND WANDERING
—Joyce Odam

I am taught.
I am taught to obey.
And to hold still.

But I do not obey.
And I do not hold still.

Look—I am over there
on the sunlit wall.
I am making poses.

You think I am funny
and you laugh.
I am not funny at all.

I am taught.
I am taught everything
you want me to know.

But I cannot listen.
I am in an ear—
the ear of deafness.

I am in the sea—
the sea of myself,
and the shell’s silence
goes inward to where
I am hearing the silence.

I am taught what to do
with my patience
which is loud
which is loud as snow
after it has blinded everything.

And there is my footprint
going into myself
just before the sun
shines upon it
from the patterned wall.

                           
(Complete poem from Poets-On-Deck,
Deck of Cards, fragment selections}

 

 

 

 For Keeps

THE QUILT   
—Robin Gale Odam   

heartbeat stitched from
memory—a last glance

sorrows old and dim
the night grows long

the clock ticks restless
days—the winds blow by

the grasses grow
the children dream

sorrows brittle now
from the lightning bolt of words
quilted into sleep

 

 

 

 A Flower in Her Hair

 

THAT ONE ROAD
—Robin Gale Odam

there could have been another breath of
time. the sigh of the greater day could ripple the
grasses, near the edge of the road, then veer inward
through the brackish prayers of souls.

far ahead, the muse could approach the shore
of the mirage, motion for us to depart, disappear
into the illusion of water beneath the haze of night,
at the bend where shadows turn—that one road
we all must go.

___________________

IN THE MOVEMENT OF LIFE
—Joyce Odam
After “Farley Mowat”, Photo by
Elisavietta Ritchie, 1994

The year you were dying.
a man stood on a vast plateau of ice

and looked out over the horizonless reaches
at the vast calmness and imagined your death

as his own. He knew nothing of you,
nor you of him.

This is a later recognition.
I give it to you as a gift of human connection :

that one could connect to another
and not be aware.

It is internal—
a thought one has when

there is a silence to fill with something more
than unnamable longing.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE WINDS OF CHANCE
—Joyce Odam

That balloon lost in the sky . . .

That kite stuck in the dead tree . . .


(prev. pub. in Brevities, December 2019)

____________________

Many thanks to the Odams for today’s collection of snapshots, our Seed of the Week. Our new SOW is a preview of the scary season to come, “Alone in the Woods”—or maybe you like being alone in a beautiful forest. Send your poems, photos & artwork with thoughts 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.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Snapshot of Twila-Star Odam, Sacramento, CA

~In her recent puppyhood~
—Photo by Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For future 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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Music We Can't Hear

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Caschwa
Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee,
Devyanshi Neupane, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

THE MYTH OF BELONGING
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I take a mental snapshot
of this building I call home.
We thought it was the place
that we could die for.
And die in. We built it
into everything we craved.
But now we hear the call
of somewhere else that we
could float to in a shell,
to reach the shore
of beauty and belonging.
This shell is sad reminder
that the bubble of my hopes
is just a fragile, weightless myth
recorded in a snapshot
of a building I call home.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SNAP SHOTS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Excitement, tantrums, what a trick,
emotions well as bored complains,
so bridge that gap in using pack,
a game of snap, played back truck seat.
What joker thought that route would pay?

It was the first, with cards we laid,
inherent noise, full volume voiced,
the hand thump of a five-year-old—
that… hesitate—to let him win,
as losing process learned so slow.

A rummy thing to play cards right,
teach patience, mask sight reading face;
if trump declared this round as spades
be ready for your options, grave.
That baize of youth seems far away.

It all seems black and white back then,
when shot summed moment in the tale,
poor focussed, fuzzy, funny too,
remembrance, not for others’ view,
unless invested—roots which grew.

In rusty tins, old shoebox lids
they pile in heap, some scrapbook glued,
though one may catch the eye or throat,
memento mori, patterned coat,
recall old quote or what she wrote.

Green baize in now laid astroturf—
low maintenance the sexton said.
My days of playing snap long gone—
you know the game they play these days—
but she had trained us, patience’ ways. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

IMPENDING DOOM
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

sharing a day with relatives in
Long Beach, California, I, a
young male child, and my cousin,
a young female adult sat together
in one roller coaster car on the
famous wooden Pike

it started with some mild ups and
downs and then rather suddenly
we found ourselves at the topmost
part of the ride, looking down and
down some more at the track ahead
which was due to make a chillingly
sharp turn soon, likely losing our car
as it would sail straight ahead, off the
tracks, down into the ocean

there were some vibrations and jolts
and then the car scooted down the
track, gaining speed, racing for that
sharp turn….

as it engaged the turn, we were both
taught a quick lesson in centrifugal
force as a real-life personal experience,
much deeper than any academic
discussion could deliver

the car stayed on the track, we made
our turn, all was well, whooo! That
brief moment, looking down the track
and entertaining all kinds of doubts,
has found a niche in my memory stores
forever after 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BEFORE SUNRISE
—Caschwa

(Inspired by former Seed of the Week:
Before Sunrise)

how high the Moon
how low the pants
citation soon
that is the dance

it’s 2 a.m.
the bar has closed
could not take stock
I must have dozed

called a taxi
was not my type
hair way too waxy
all talk, all hype

reached in pocket
there was no cash
real cheap locket
fake eye lash

a contract is
a package deal
each other’s biz
stays under seal

is there a way
to get me home
and then I’ll pay
you with a gnome?

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

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

The hefty dreams of suburban cities
The burning sky, the nightlife of Naples
Asks me to write a sonorous letter
To the crescent moon high above the park
A dandelion for her wish to fold the dreams
I surmise in sending letters to not feel the
danger
Brown skin city high scrapers school me
A nail pictured shopkeeper in the most
urgent way
The honey choir of dazzling smoke
The lost feathers of the peace of dove
A symbol of fraternity among the sleeves
As if the night-bloomed daisies know the
human heart. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

MY DOLL
—Devyanshi Neupane, Age 5, Melbourne, Australia

I have a doll
I play with it
When I am at
Home. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

USED CLOTHING AD
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Cloth made to last long time,
But seams are worn and frayed.

Maybe could last another season
If you’re careful how you play.

Beware of things
That poke and hang--
Sharp points atop
Cyclone fences
And, of course,
Berry bushes
Which can’t be
Broached at all.

Actually,
The fabric has worn thin
And won’t endure
Another tragic winter
Unless you’re sure
Not to slip and fall
On ice
Or bend over at all
Since you could have
An accident
That might undo
All your modest efforts.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

LOADING SHIPS TO CAST AWAY
—Joe Nolan

How soon to throw away
Old things that decay?

Is meat
Good a week,
If it is
Refrigerated?

How about dates
That are late?
Can you stand them up
After a certain hour
And walk away?

How short is
Too short?
When you get the follow-up call,
What will you have to say
About not wasting time?

Where do we stand
In our power
To load our ships
And cast away
Stowaways and
Termites from
The shore?

Scrape our hulls
From barnacles,
Set our sails
For miracles
Of life out on
The open seas,
At the mercy
Of sun and wind,
No sins confessed,
Since we are not sorry.

We’ll commit them all
Again and again,
In every port
We enter,
Since we are sailors
Grown hard upon the water.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

RANSOMING THE FUTURE
—Joe Nolan

Harboring all the old
As a ransom
Against the present
And future,
Saying we cannot
Move on from here
Until all these old things,
We jointly clear,
But you say you can’t remember.

How can we hope
To draw a map
Through our garbage dump
When how these things
Came to be here
In this place that has no name
Cannot be described,
Since you say you can’t remember.

If we haven’t a clue
What are we to do?

There’s no name tags
On any of this junk
That might tell us who
Should be the one
To shovel and hoe
To dig a hole
To push all of it in,
Whatever came from him.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

PLANTS FACING STAR-SHINE
—Joe Nolan

The universe
Envelops olive trees
Planted in fine sand.

Also, date trees,
But not as well.

Hoary things
Grow and make demands
For water and dung,
Tasty to their roots,
Through which
Music is sung
That we can’t hear.

Stars reach down
From their cosmic heavens
To beat a sound
Into earth
That nourishes
And sustains.

It isn’t hard
For a star
To reach out
To Earth plants
That remain
Facing into
Endless darkness,
With just a little star-shine,
Every night,
Without complaint.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Time flies when you’re on an emotional roller coaster.

—Kaitlyn Bristowe

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today’s fine contributors, some of whom tackled our Seed of the Week, Snapshots. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Poetry in Motion
meets in Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Sacramento Poetry Center
features Cloudy and Julie Valin
tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about these and other
future 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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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 rummy thing to 

play cards right…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

Snapshots

—Photo by Nancy Haskett

* * *

—Poetry by Nancy Chisholm Haskett,
Modesto, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

PHOTO TAKEN, JUNE 7, 2010

She sits on a stool
on a Glasgow sidewalk,
warmed by a ribbed gray sweater,
long skirt,
legs wrapped in heavy white stockings,
swollen feet and ankles
jammed into open-toed sandals.

A silk scarf of bright reds, blues, and greens
covers most of her head,
gray hair in front
matches her bushy eyebrows,
her eyes unfocused,
maybe in a daydream
as she plays music,
the large red accordion
resting on her lap,
right hand on keys,
left hand pressing tiny white buttons,
a slight smile
revealing a gap between her two front teeth.

There is no basket
in front of her,
no obvious way
to drop Euros as a thank-you
for her solo concert.
Perhaps all she needs
is acknowledgement and appreciation
from those who pause for a moment
to listen,
nod,
smile,
before walking on.

 

 

 

 

WHAT I DIDN’T DO

Hundreds of pigeons
strut, peck, fly
through memories of streets in
Antwerp, Bruges,
Strasbourg, Lucerne,
on cobblestones, underfoot,
dodging feet and car tires,
hopping up curbs,
heads bobbing,
iridescent neck feathers
catching sunlight—

and then, one in London,
south bank of the Thames
top of steps near a water fountain,
broken leg, hobbling,
wet.

In my mind
I pick it up,
feel its heart flutter
under dampened wings,
the roughness of orange feet,
sharpness of tiny claws,

an act of salvation.

 

 

 

SOUVENIRS

In the loosely woven basket,
hidden under new gray and white KN95s,
are colorful fabric masks,
sewn and marketed early in the pandemic,
some in Scottish plaid,
one dark navy sprinkled with tiny white stars,
a San Francisco Giants logo, black against orange,
a kaleidoscope of pastel tie-dye,
another simply declaring, “VOTE!”

At the time it was all we had,
and we wore them to protect ourselves
as well as others,
but some, in defiance,
refused to comply,
walked bare-faced down grocery store aisles,
stood at the check-out
daring the cashier to refuse a sale.

Soft and silky in multiple layers,
they are reminders
of those first frightening months
when complacency shattered,
just as it could do again
at any time.

 

 

 

 

NEAR MISSES

There was that time
on the 405 freeway,
fast lane curved right,
revealed a wheelbarrow
mere yards away dead center,
no time to stop,
swerved into the next lane
without even looking

and then there was the four-way stop
at Carver and Standiford
before the signal was installed,
when I stopped, started to go,
paused just long enough
to see the semi truck run straight through

but before any of that
and years before I was born,
there was the morning when my dad
broke his ankle during parachute training
at Fort Benning, Georgia,
stayed behind to recuperate,
didn’t jump into Normandy on June 6.

 

 

 

 

DIGITAL NY TIMES, May 7, 2024

Lead story:
Met Gala fundraiser,
$75,000 for a single ticket,
five men lift and carry an oversized train
of sapphire blue organza,
decorative resin birds perch on a woman’s shoulders,
a man wears a headpiece as large as a pillow,
a woman is shrouded in mosquito netting—
outlandish outfits
walk the carpet for one night
at outrageous cost.

Scroll down:
Israeli Forces in Rafah,
aerial photo of demolished apartments,
roofs gone,
views into rooms with wallpaper and posters,
a refrigerator in a tiny kitchen,
everything exposed,
emptied of residents
forced to leave
at outrageous cost.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A good snapshot keeps a moment from running away.

—Eudora Welty

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks and welcome back to Nancy Haskett for her fine poetry today!

 

 

 

 A Snapshot of Nancy Haskett

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Storytelling Sunday presents
Griffin Peralta and Derrick Brown
in Placerville today, 4:30pm.
For info about this and other
future 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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!

 

Complacency shattered…