That Cunning Sun

  —Photo by B. Lynne Zika

* * *

—Poetry by B. Lynne Zika, Burbank, CA
—Photos by Jiri Vlatch and B. Lynne Zika

 

 

 

GITA

Beneath the window passerines
cluster in their family clutch,
claiming for the afternoon
a place to share, to speak, to touch.

Behind the screen my daily plague
begins its torturous harangue.
Lone I—vanquished-—then concede:
I am now become the pain.

 

 

 

 —Photo by Jiri Vlatch

AND THE CUNNING SUN

Morning sun stretches long green fingers through
the grove
and cups her hand over a breast of creekbank moss.
Downriver, rapids churn the day to a start;
beech trees lean into their stately tasks.
A monarch butterfly loops around me,
tracing arabesques, wings beating a delicate thrum,
cocooning me in a silent, twinkling applause,
and the cunning sun
slips over to steal flecks of gold and copper from
my hair.
My love has gone.

___________________

AVONDALE

On the south end of Noble, gold-lettered coaches
carry children with richer daddies down a circle
of track.
Across town, a necklace of boxcars
waits to be hitched at the dock.
The mill whistle cuts the day in half.
Dye from the vats still froths the creek
bounding the house that failed to hold my mother
past the year she was of age.

The morning Mr. Raymer dropped a milk bottle
on the kitchen step, she woke to her father’s
tongue pushing past her lips, pushing away
18 years of safety. She must have gone cold,
felt the slip she’d pulled on the night before
too thin
against her body. Outside, the milkman
swept the last of the splinters
and whistled off to the comfort of his route.

Three-thousand miles later, I open a package
my mother has sent from home. A gold chain
to safekeep the charm I’ll be left when she’s gone.
A pocketknife she means for my grandson—
“My daddy’s,” she writes.

I remember a man with pockets of candy.
The way we swept into Woolworth’s,
grand with our Saturday dimes.
Our mother. Laughing.
Slapping pink balls with wooden paddles
one-hundred-and-twenty-nine times.

 

 

 

 —Photo by B. Lynne Zika

PROMISE

Soon it will be spring.
In the patch of ground
outside the window,
fruit trees will swell
from bud to flower—
young maidens with growing breasts
preparing for the fullness
of motherhood.
They will bear fruit.

Surely
a life of pain bears
something of benefit:
a testament to the comfort
love can bring
or bearing witness to the world,
to those who believe themselves forgotten
or never seen.

I see you.
Come.
Let us remember together
the bud as it bursts open,
the sunlight casting shadows
at our feet.

____________________

 

Today's LittleNip:

 

Truth is like the sun. You can shut it out for a time, but it ain't goin' away.

 

—Elvis Presley

 

____________________ 

—Medusa, with thanks to B. Lynne Zika for her fine poetry today on this most unusual date that only happens once every four years! (Where will we be four years from now?) Anyway, visit the Kitchen again tomorrow for Lynne’s Italian Sonnet.

 

 

 

 B. Lynne Zika

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 




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!

 

 














 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Angry Gods of Transport

 —Poetry by Neil Fulwood, Nottingham, England
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain 

CONTRAFLOW

The gods of transport infrastructure
are angry. They demand laudation,
obeisance. They demand respect
in Aretha Franklin terms of magnitude.

The free flow of traffic offends them.
Uncluttered bus lanes offend them.
Cars offend them, swinging merrily
into workplace car parks bang on time.


They have visited a plague of potholes,
a reigning down of raised ironwork,
a weltuntergang of widening foretold
by the exponential increase in road users.

And lo, the acolytes come as summoned,
some by van, some by flatbed. Some
by saloon, side panel decals demarcated
with the livery of traffic management.

And lo, they come with theodolites,
distance meters, hard hats and clipboards.
They set out cones, weigh down A-frames
with sandbags and bolt into place

warning signs running the gamut
from ROAD WORKS AHEAD to ROAD
NARROWS, and just for the cosmic
shits and giggles, temporary traffic lights,

four-way control: a stop-start sequence
slower even than Peckinpah slo-mo.
And lo, with their toytown smelting tins
to fill in potholes like patchwork quilts,

with their sci-fi behemoth Barber-Greenes
resurfacing lengthy but incomplete stretches;
lo, with their battalions of heavy plant
roadside-parked and unattended; and lo,

with their checklists and risk assessments,
their buzzwords on the theme of health
and safety, their PR pushed-for accreditation
as considerate contractors … they bow down 


to the gods of transport infrastructure,
promise chaos, delay; the renunciation
of God, St Christopher and Henry T. Ford;
an endless proliferation of red lines


snaking from here to home on the satnav.

 

 

 

 
 

FOG

The long route, out into the sticks,
two-and-a-half hours the full round trip

byways and potholes, hidden dips
liable to flood at the first spit

of rain. Hedgerows up for a go
at the paintwork, low-hanging branches

fancying a crack at the mirrors.
And today, fog. Horror movie tendrils

seep their damp grasp from field
to roadside, pooling the camber,

grey-washing hazards till tyres
are shredded, suspension rattled,

tracking thrown out with a jolt
fit to rearrange molecules. Fog

mapping out the creeping nasty fun
of your own personal unasked-for 


Dickens homage: Fog everywhere.
Fog up the side of the bus, fog

in the blind spot, fog smearing
the headlights like a dirty protest. Fog

tagging the windscreen—filthy,
off-yellow, T.S. Eliot fog. Thicker gouts

rolling in, a dull leperous glow
at the centre; the fog of black tides

and coastal folklore. Fog as diminisher
of distance, trickster of perspective; 


fog blanking out the logistics
of developing hazard and response time.

 

 

 

 

SALAMANDER


Basically a sheet metal fuel tank
on four spiky legs. The exclamation mark

of its flue modelled on the smokestack


of Wild West locos; capped 

by an unsymmetrical circumflex.
User's guide: knock aside

the cover flap, fill with paraffin,
dunk lath of wood in same.
Pay attention: this is the non-

health-and-safety part. Strike match
(arm's length) against said lath, watch
acrid gout of smoke roll back

from blue-edged flame, thrust
burning hunk of wood
into paraffin. Remove at *whomph*,

beat to charred remnant on concrete
floor. Clout cover back with flat
of hand. Never mind 


the turps, the sawdust thrown
down to sop up oil change
spillage, the hundred-and-one


ways the garage could have gone up—
it didn't. There's a lesson in this. 

 

 

 

 

MISFORTUNE WITH A KNAPSACK
(after Anna Akhmatova) 


Whistling through Tyrolean meadows,
stereotypical in national dress.

Knapsacking ‘round Nepal, all hippie beads
and selfie-stick. Lurking in Lebanon

on a false passport, wavelengthed
to the political situation. 


Unholstered in a Hollywood fuck pad,
soaking up those Ellroy vibes.

Torpid in Honduras, draining the last
of the day as the sun goes down,

tomorrow’s edition in his back pocket.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Resist much, obey little.

—Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

__________________

Welcome back to Neil Fulwood today! This has been a week of visiting Brits: Ian Copestick last Sunday, Neil Fulwood today, and frequent contributor Stephen Kingsnorth. 

 

Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham, England, where he still lives and works; he first visited the Kitchen in 2015, and has appeared several times since then. He has four collections out with Shoestring Press: No Avoiding It; Can’t Take Me Anywhere; Service Cancelled; and The Point of the Stick, the conductor/classical music-themed poems of his which were posted in Medusa’s Kitchen in July of last year, and eventually grew into a book-length sequence which has just gone to press and will be out next month. It’s called The Point of the Stick after a guidebook on the art of conducting which was written by Sir Adrian Boult back in the day. Congratulations on the new book, Neil!

_________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Neil Fulwood

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

The Mirrors of Years

 Bare Trees, Full Moon

 

* * *

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

 

 

 

WINTER MOONLIGHT
—Joyce Odam

Where are you in the moonlight
now—the residue of light—
the dark, incorporating?

I know this light, how it flares,
how it dwindles,
candle-like.
       
Whoever leads the way through this
is burdened, going ever deeper,
into the thoroughness.

Here, there are answers.
Never opened.
There is no light.

That was long ago,
in your imagination,
ever holy—

ever
wounded
by the difference

and the myth of knowing—
enduring still
where hope still promises.

 

(prev. pub. in Rattlesnake Review, 2005)

 

 

 

 Winter Moonlight

WHAT IS WRITTEN, WHAT IS REAL
—Joyce Odam

It is first a thought.
It becomes a love. It becomes a word.

It is a word.
It is an utterance. It is a poem.

It is a mute utterance.
It is read by the eyes. It is read by the mind.

It is now the poem.
It is now the ash. It is now the wind.

___________________

WHITE SHADOW OF LONELINESS
—Joyce Odam

Tonight the white shadow of loneliness
flows down upon the silent room

where someone sits in reminiscence
in the quiet hour—

something mentioned
long ago, or

only sits and looks at the white chairs
caught in similar emptiness, or
 
simply drifts away
from any meaning.

Beam by beam
the white shadow stretches

into moonlight
and the hour thickens.

The walls take on the brightness
that searches the room for some connection.

Tonight, the white shadow of loneliness
flows down.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/11/17; 8/10/21)

_________________

WHITE UMBRELLAS IN THE SNOW
—Joyce Odam
After Kennin-ji Temple, Kyoto, Japan
—Photo by Modi Galili

What kind of winter needs a white umbrella,
except for the thrill of snow,
silently falling—

except
for the trail of shoes
making long white traces in the snow.

Three walkers,
costumed blue, appear under
the relevance of the white umbrellas.

Maybe
a dance—a ritual—
a planned performance, wrong season.

The world is wide—the stage a
landscape of pure white distance—the
white umbrellas vanishing into more white.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/24/20) 

 

 

 

 Tree Line

AT THE PERIPHERY
—Robin Gale Odam
After Edgar Lee Masters’ Spoon River

I’m certain I was here before—
the deep lush of green shade at the
periphery, the bouquet at my breast,
the perfume—

fragile sunlight on my parasol,
the earth dry and soft—my gown
dusted the blue shadows on the path-
way, the dust of the earth. The dust,

the marker, the granite bench, the
linen kerchief—the bowl of fruit and the
plate of bread, the table set for guests.
I loved the blue shadows.

My mother prayed, she said, for the sorrows.
I tried to tell her they are called sparrows—

we came to gather at the valley, the one
you have to cross alone—not to pass like
an arid breeze, but just to dip into the
stream, and to die the death into the
holy grail.

I loved the blue shadows.

 

 

 

 I Thought It Was A Dream

UNTETHERED
—Robin Gale Odam

a strand of fragile string in my fingers,
the cold moon low in the sky—only a few
years have gone by 

 

 

 

 The Eyes

WHO IS THIS CHILD
—Joyce Odam

Who is this child of the haunted eyes
hidden beyond the look.

If I should enter
such eyes, what would I know.

I cannot be mother to this child,
he is already too old—

years are mirrors, the haunted eyes
already formed.

Dark tears swim,
waiting to burn.

What can I do
but look past the burning eyes—

no book of love
to read there. 

 

 

 

 The Calling

WINTER SOLILOQUY
—Joyce Odam

What is left but the terrible ash
sifting on gray air . . .

I feel a twinge of emotion, unnamed
and unremembered. Where does it center?

I track the season by its loss, knowing
it goes too fast. The season slips by, and I

am left in its slow wake as if I did not
belong here,    questioning,    and lingering.

What is life that I carry it in me so singularly,
praising it,    and damning it.

I mourn the mystery of myself,
unfinished,    and unsorted.

I feel like an unfolding,
but I cannot open, and I cannot close.

The sight of a single resting heron
leaves me with such a mourning.     


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/11/22)

___________________

WIDOW DANCE
—Joyce Odam

Precarious,
on the high wall,
the low sun
blazing the stones
to fiery shadow,
loneliness
will not have her;
even the moon
must leave her there,
not knowing why
she grieves
or for how long
or with what loyalties
due to widows; her cries
are the harsh cries
of stolen time.
Her dance
is sacrificial;
she dances till
the hem of her dress
is thoroughly ruined and
the evening crows fluster around her.

                               
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/17/15)

 

 

 

 The Way Home

WINDOW AND SEA
—Joyce Odam

And the tides—as they pull again
at the moon’s urging
and the earth’s response,

the slow motion of time,
the gray window that lets in light,
yet holds the darkness.

Such is the compromise :
subtleties of shadow,
the way the cold walls shift,

or seem to.
How near the sea—
the old admonishing sea,

claiming what it claims,
whispering,
come near . . .   stay back . . .

And the sea breathes in and out
with its glimmers of sunlight—
the sea’s reflection.

And the tiny window
glints out over the bay
and the day fills with strangers

changing the mood and rhythm
between window and sea
and breaking the connection.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/19/16)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WRUNG
—Joyce Odam

your cry
on the soft darkness

your tears
in a tight handkerchief

making the rain
such sorrow

 
(prev. pub. in Paisley Moon, Winter 1991
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/10/19)

_____________________

Our thanks to Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam for today’s fine, wintery poetry and photos! Our new Seed of the Week is “Jewels”. 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.

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

A reminder that Mario Ellis Hill,
Ann Michaels, and Frank Graham
will be reading at Twin Lotus Thai
in Sacramento tonight, 6pm—
reservations strongly advised!
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!

 

 

 

 

Mooning For Springtime

—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Dawn Pisturino,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa,
Shiva Neupane, Sayanı Mukherjee,
and Joe Nolan
—Photos by Dawn Pisturino, Caschwa,
and Shiva Neupane

WINTER MOONLIGHT WITH NO COMPASS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

I thought it was impossible
to survive his death
until I did. I still survive,
although his eyes, his smiles,
are winter moonlit forest paths
erased by leaves and wind
I follow in my sleep.
No boots or coat to keep
me warm from snow and chill.
The paths lead me in circles,
past landmarks I remember
then forget and yet
I know I’ve been this way before,
and I’ll come back.
And back.
And back.

 

 

 

 Dawn Pisturino

 

FIVE MOON HAIKU
—Dawn Pisturino, Golden Valley, AZ

Samurai

samurai practice
underneath large golden moon
bamboo flute playing

* * *

Fancy Dress

gazing soulfully
at the moon in fancy dress
deep meditation

* * *

Snow Moon

the full moon rises
with supernatural glow
reflecting on snow

* * *

Healing

mooncakes and water
capture moonlight’s silver rays
powerful healing

* * *

Moon Festival

moon festival comes
gazers flock to open fields
and watch the moonrise

 

 

 

 —Photo by Dawn Pisturino

MOONSHINE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Moonlighting, black economy,
it’s on the dark side where there’s work,
so is it nighttime, gains the name,
or does the lunar hide from sight?
It’s off the books, no questions asked,
under the table, cash in hand,
black market, not in sales but jobs,

It’s summer norm, on building sites,
in spring, grant ending, balance spend,
then autumn when the fairs close down,
and winter with tears, moonshine drunk.
A redshift marks expanding stars,
though Before Yule, and Long Nights, Cold,
are names of full moons as year turns.

Here’s latest operation code,
without connection to its rôle,
as crosswords puzzlers, pub quiz teams,
and gossip columnists at work
debate the meaning of the words—
sonata playing to the trill—
as tidal pull of secrets calls.

Do agents plotting in the shade,
ghost friction writers fanning flames,
now in this season, discontent,
lay out deceptions, frozen waste?
The sky’s clear, ‘Winter Moonlight’ op.,
when silver tingles, shiver light,
but midnight asks what’s going on. 

 

 

 

 Suburban Panther
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

A PERFECT WORLD
—Stephen Kingsnorth
After “A Perfect World” by Joe Nolan, MK, 2/19/24

She could have made, imperfect world
In which we’d all agree,
In which we’d all be happy,
In which we’d all be free,
Automatons, lone DNA,
Without a choice,
To love or hate,
A programmed mind,
pre-printed card for Valentine,
But instead,

She made a world,
Her choice and ours,
Where we enslave and disagree,
With wars and fears
And pain and tears,
But love and care, where we choose so.
Can love be true, set by decree,
or only if not so, possibility?
But ours is sure to question why,
And reckon path, like Son to die,
Painfully, for that was choice,
Both hers, and His and ours to be,
For loving’s costly, worth shown so. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

MOONY WINTERLIGHT
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

burns through the windows
like a goony birthright
claiming all in its path
denouncing rules and laws

shiny orb, connected to L.L.C.
narrow outlook, sparrow to cook
sweet habit, cockamamie orbit
imitating mainly worms and bees

captures the eyes, then forsakes
the tender scalp for rising snakes
piles of high-numbered scrabble
pieces police the geese for a fee

is there no end to globe circling art?
who holds the snow globe we share?
the call of the ball, to hear a sphere
“a stage where every man must play a part”

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BEGINNER’S LUCK
—Caschwa

in Southern California, early in the
cold morning old fishermen gather
at the end of the pier and set up
their gear for the day

one by one they cast a baited line
into the water and hope to get a
response; they know all the tricks,
or so they’d tell me, and with nothing
yet on their hook, I was their captive
audience

and so I, a newcomer, cast my line and
got a bite! in an instant, I was showered
with all manner of suggestions, don’t tug
too fast, work the line, trust me, don’t
listen to them, you need a lucky charm or
dance, etc., etc.

ultimately I reeled in a 10 lb. King Salmon,
teasingly small, opined my friend from
Alaska, but a hearty family dinner on the
grill at home 

 

 

 

 —Photo by Caschwa

WAVY VIEWS
—Caschwa

peering out the back window
moderate winds massage a
mature apricot tree that my son
had planted from bare root

the same winds brush against
a neighbor’s oak tree, and its
leaves do a different dance

high and away from the trees
are various cloud formations in
constant motion, their outlines
at once map personification and
just as abruptly kaleidoscope
into confetti explosions

 

 

 

Shiva with Python

 

 

PYTHON AND ME
—Shiva Neupane, Melbourne, Australia

The python slithered along
My neck.
It gave me an adrenaline rush.
The leathery wet-like skin rubbed
My neck.
I felt sensationally amazed
At being its amicable friend.
There is so much to learn
About its instinctual betrayal
When it gets hurt and threatened
By its surroundings. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

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

A symphony of noon dew song
A cavernous inspiration
A tulle skirt, a picfair in display
Swirling motion in amorphous zeal
Born and broken in a Cavendish heart
I lost my numbers in a while
Play folios on rent
I pictured a sumptuous scorn
Mere wordplay of vivid illusions
Time's lost unbidden voice
She strummed through
A magical labyrinth of airy valve
Before it came a burning halt
As it happens in a symphony song. 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

[typo is not our fault here at MK!]

 

LIFE IS STRANGE AND KARMA, CRAZY
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Life is strange.
Karma, crazy.
Wisdom,
Often lazy,
When it comes
To scraping up
The dross.

Obedience,
Resists commands
When it’s left
To dictators’ demands,
From foreign kings—

Execrable offerings,
From the damned,
Who promise wealth,
When they plan
To steal
Your bottom dollar.

 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SCIENTISM VERSUS EXPERIENCE
—Joe Nolan
 
Someone must have told you
What was real and what was not,
What exists and what does not,
As a metaphysical exposition
Of Scientism,
As though they had a lock on reality
And all those who differed
In what they experienced
Were mentally ill.

It’s the politics of experience
That clobbered R. D. Laing—
Defining experiential deviants
As insane–
Suffering from deficiencies
Of certain chemicals
In their brains,
Potentially offset
With major doses of lithium
Or other, mind-altering drugs.

But there was magic
Before there was science,
Music, beat out with drums
To induce a state of trance
While everyone got up to dance.

The advent of scientism
Has failed to make a cure
For the wisdom of experience—
Transcendent landscapes, pure. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SHAMANISM
—Joe Nolan

Smoke, incense, vapors
To bring us into trance
To summon outer spirits
Into our shaman dance

There is more than
We know or
Care to know,
More than we could handle
Day to day.
Who will watch our children
While we play?

To touch the
Outer garment of a hem,
Plunging inward
Through the mists of mayhem
That jumble up the mind
To let the spirits in,
Together
To dance in trance. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

A NEW IDEA
—Joe Nolan

It’s a new idea
That’s yet to find its reign
Inside our culture,
Inside our brains.

It’s hard to push in edgewise,
Since something new can hurt,
Since it’s unfamiliar,
Like living in a yurt,

Outside, in winter,
When the snow is deep
Somewhere in Mongolia
Where temperature-drops are steep,

And the sons and daughters
Of Genghis Khan
Raise sheep,
Whose wool is so warm,
Because it’s so cold.

But when a new idea
Has taken root in Fall,
Before an avalanche of snow
Has covered all,
Spring will bring its outburst,
Surprising one and all—
That life is for living and
Families for forgiving. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

Today’s LittleNip:

DARE I SAY THIS
—Caschwa

never had a dog, Spot
forever had a bald spot
all my cars had a blind spot
which was easier to spot
than an open parking spot

__________________

Lots going on in the Kitchen today—snakes and whales and puppy-dog tails—not to mention sheep—and some responses to our Seed of the Week, Winter Moonlight. (Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.) Our thanks to our contributors for their lively input this morning. I guess I’ll participate in this Monday...

 

As for the typo in the public domain karma visual—I'll go to my grave changing it's to its and vice versa, even for some poets who should know better. I won't live to see it, but it seems clear that apostrophes will be toast within a few decades.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy 

of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Dr. Jeremy D. Green will present
an evening of poetry and stories
at Sacramento Poetry Center tonight.
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!

 

Is it Springtime yet?

Levitating

 —Poetry by Ian Copestick, Stoke-on-Trent, England
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain 

HORSE RACING

I was walking my dog
last week.

She likes watching the
horses in a field
on our route.

So do I.

Two horses, I think
they're mother and child,

Were racing each other
around the pretty big
field.

Really galloping.
But just for the sheer
fun of it.

It warmed this
cold bitter heart
for a while
at least.

It was beautiful. 

 

 

 

 

LEVITATION

A beautiful
summer's
night.

The sky
becoming
a mass of
pink, purple
red, blue,
white, and
every colour
you could
think of.

The birds
singing.

My soul
is levitating,
I think.

The warmth
of the sun
on my lily-white
English skin.

The smell of cut
grass, inflaming
my senses.

I get high on
these things.

My soul levitates. 

 

 

 

KNOCK ME UP

Thinking back to the good times
When my partner was still alive.

I remember one time, she owed
some money to the milkman.

She wrote a note, saying
"knock me up, and I will
pay you.”

I told her "you can't leave
that!"

"Why not?"

“Just read it again."

So she did.

"Oh my God, Ian
Thanks for that."

We laughed about it for hours, days
I think.

God, I miss her so much, it
cripples me. 

 

 

 

A STREAM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

You have to let all
of the memories flow
It hurts when they come
and it hurts when they go.

I wasn't much for being young.
I don't like being old.
Hell will be too hot for me.
Purgatory will be too cold.

A stream of unconsciousness
flows through my brain.
I've smoked far too much weed
to qualify as sane.

But, still I keep on trying, trying
to explain myself
Nobody is going to do it for me.
And they could never define my
mental health,

You have to try to maintain your flow.
That's all that writers have.
Although it comes and goes,
and you don't notice if it's bad. 

 

 

 

 

THE POLICE QUESTIONNAIRE

Someone I know
is trying to join
the police force.

I know
I feel the same
way too
but I really love
this person.

I was asking them
how the first online
interview went.

“It's just like a kind
of questionnaire
sort of thing.
What would you do
in certain circumstances”

Me, being a natural
piss taker said:

“You come across a
gang of white men
standing around,
and a black man
on the floor, bleeding.

Who do you arrest?”

If you answered

“The black man,”

Welcome to the police. 

 

 

 

 

A GLIMPSE

We've lost any glimpse
of spirituality
We may, once
have had.

It's understandable,
how much suffering
religion has caused.

So many wars, so
many people killed
for no real reason.

I, strangely, choose
to have some kind
of faith

In what I don't know.
There has to be
more than this.

There must be.

I'm sure I've felt it

Even if it is
just a glimpse.

Just a glimpse of
something beyond
our knowledge. 

 

 

 

 

THE WEIRDEST THING

The weirdest thing
I've ever had anyone
ask me

Was when I started working
at the T.J. Maxx warehouse.

I filled out all of the forms.
As you do.
A few hours later, the boss,
Well, my boss, turned up with
my I.D.

The name on it was Ian
Copestake.
I told him that they'd
got my name wrong.

He actually, asked me
"Are you sure?"

At this time I was 40 years
old.

Did he really believe that I
was so fucking stupid that
I'd lived for forty years without
knowing my name?

Apparently, he did. 

 

 

 

AT LEAST ONE THING

Well, there's
at least
one thing I
truly
know.
The longer
I live.
The more
I grow.

Not physically,
Since I stopped
Drinking I've lost
A lot of weight.

But, I'm definitely
Growing spiritually,
Emotionally.

I hope that I am
Becoming a better
Person.

I don't know,
But I hope so.

It's what life is
All about, really
Isn't it?

Isn't it?

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Every book, every volume you see here, has a soul. The soul of the person who wrote it and of those who read it and lived and dreamed with it. Every time a book changes hands, every time someone runs his eyes down its pages, its spirit grows and strengthens.
 
―Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Shadow of the Wind

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to one of our friends from across the sea, Ian Copestick, for his fine poetry today!

 

 

 

 “… a glimpse of something beyond…”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Taylor Graham and Steve Talbert
will be reading in Camino today, 2pm, at 

Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills.
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!