—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Nolcha Fox
Mirror in the fun house
makes me busty,
makes me thin.
If only it would
make me rich,
I’d take that mirror home.
makes me busty,
makes me thin.
If only it would
make me rich,
I’d take that mirror home.
Cloud Gazing
Some lie in grass
to watch the clouds pass,
they name the shapes
clouds make
as winds change the sky.
I lie on my stomach
and watch the clouds
ripple in river and sun.
I poke at the water
with finger or stick,
to change what I see
before winds change the sky.
Drunk
A deep merlot dusk,
I drink til I’m drunk.
I stagger through
dark memories
unlit by stars
that stick between
my toes.
What’s left of me
is body in denial,
each wrinkle, each hair,
a record of my Nows.
Nows don’t get old.
Nows don’t believe funerals
will happen to them.
Nows don’t go out of business.
Nows have permanent fire sales
on dissicated Pasts
and forgotten Futures.
Nows don’t prepare
for the Apocalypse.
Nows remind me of the child
trapped inside this body
in denial.
is body in denial,
each wrinkle, each hair,
a record of my Nows.
Nows don’t get old.
Nows don’t believe funerals
will happen to them.
Nows don’t go out of business.
Nows have permanent fire sales
on dissicated Pasts
and forgotten Futures.
Nows don’t prepare
for the Apocalypse.
Nows remind me of the child
trapped inside this body
in denial.
Feathers
My words are little eggs inside my mouth.
My mouth is a wet nest of garbled greetings.
Garbled greetings turn to feathers floating out
my nose.
My nose begins to itch when all the birds fly.
Birds fly out my mouth before I say goodbye.
Say goodbye and birds lay eggs inside my mouth.
Motion
My lungs scream Stop!
I can’t keep up!
Why do I run
to catch my mind
that flits and flies?
All this running
takes me nowhere.
I’m only on a treadmill.
and my only trophy
swollen, blistered feet.
Do butterflies
and bees wear watches,
schedule meetings,
worry about being late?
Or do they just
enjoy the moment,
not a thought of running
out of time?
Trees grasp
the roadway
with fingers
of shadow
to keep cars
from flying
away.
the roadway
with fingers
of shadow
to keep cars
from flying
away.
Love Songs
The first I heard of love
was whispered by a ceiling fan
that whisked away the sheen of sweat
from playing in the sun.
I heard of love again
when wind refused to let me fall,
it painted giggles on my teeth
while I was wrapped in its embrace.
Love sang to me in crinkling
when I found valentines
you stuffed inside my lunch bag
with a promise you’d be mine.
You thought you were the first
to murmur love songs in my ear.
I heard them all around me
long before I kissed your smile.
The first I heard of love
was whispered by a ceiling fan
that whisked away the sheen of sweat
from playing in the sun.
I heard of love again
when wind refused to let me fall,
it painted giggles on my teeth
while I was wrapped in its embrace.
Love sang to me in crinkling
when I found valentines
you stuffed inside my lunch bag
with a promise you’d be mine.
You thought you were the first
to murmur love songs in my ear.
I heard them all around me
long before I kissed your smile.
Love, Unleashed
Goodbye, restraint, goodbye, self-doubt.
You’re coins unrolled that spin and spread across
the floor.
You’re a bird set free from gilded cage.
And when you leap,
you fly.
Goodbye, restraint, goodbye, self-doubt.
You’re coins unrolled that spin and spread across
the floor.
You’re a bird set free from gilded cage.
And when you leap,
you fly.
Ode to a Campbell’s Soup Mug
You left it behind,
a chubby-faced smile,
a present I gave you
that you never used.
I thought it might help me
remember your smile,
but I saw a stranger
that I never knew.
It stayed in the cabinet,
waiting to warm hands.
I never used it.
I gave it away.
One Last Check Before the Move
Kitchen cupboards
moan for dishes,
long for canned goods
past expired.
Bookshelves groan
from emptiness
and sorrow.
Closets spill secrets
and bent wire hangers,
trapeze swings abandoned
and rattling in ghost-wind.
Boxes and bags full of
nothing important
are loaded on vans,
leaving nothing behind.
God Disorganizes Again
God is bored with Heaven. He slaps paint on the walls. We hear thunder. God drags the sofa to the other side of the room. Sparks fly. We see lightning. God decides the couch is too far from the TV, and it’s too hard to watch football. God moves the sofa back. We feel earthquakes that tumble buildings, we see lava erupt from extinct volcanoes. The world is in shambles, and God is still not satisfied. God decides to remodel the kitchen during halftime. Halftime is a half-galaxy away. Stars explode. We hide in the cellar. God’s team wins. He likes his renovation. God is happy. All is good. Everything is in its proper place. For now.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Our fingers
intertwine, ropes
that weave our lives
together into time.
—Nolcha Fox
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for today’s fine poetry and photos!
Spring will be here before you know it...
A reminder that there will be a reading
of Ekphrastic poems from last week's
workshop at Switchboard Gallery
in Placerville, 6pm. And
Poetry Unplugged has returned
to Sacramento at the new
Silver Lining Cocktail Bar, 8pm.
For info about these and other
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!
