Sayani Mukherjee, Dawn Pisturino,
Michael H. Brownstein, Caschwa,
Taylor Dibbert, Vandana Kumar,
and Joe Nolan
—Photo by Dawn Pisturino
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
PROJECTILE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
One day at school, I scratched the inside of my nostril with the end of a #2 pencil. The eraser came off in my nose. During math. Which I hated. Even more than a rubber-stuffed nostril. I was 12 and bored. One good snort, and the eraser ejected. It bounced down the aisle. I counted three bounces. Who says you can’t have fun with numbers?
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
One day at school, I scratched the inside of my nostril with the end of a #2 pencil. The eraser came off in my nose. During math. Which I hated. Even more than a rubber-stuffed nostril. I was 12 and bored. One good snort, and the eraser ejected. It bounced down the aisle. I counted three bounces. Who says you can’t have fun with numbers?
—Public Domain Visual Courtesy of Joe Nolan
ONE DAY AT SCHOOL
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
One day at school was quite enough,
prestigious history be damned.
My training, platform, London-bound,
to city, first, on learning track.
The ‘playground’, more a parade square,
for uniform inspection lines.
A cap, brass buttons, shining shoes,
gowned prefects’ study, up-down stare.
Hymn, reading, prayer, Assembly, law,
post-war requirement every school.
Most masters, Squeers, Dickensian,
the punishment, corporal, norm.
So every subject, downward, scare,
humiliations, and to spare.
Except for one, the English man,
a hint, Dead Poets, hinterland;
carpe diem he could decree
to make it worth, one day at school.
—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
FAST TRACK
—Stephen Kingsnorth
Like fast track post I started school,
my first class stamped, leap year, one day,
the prime remove from norms of life—
now stubborn age confirms that rite.
Eleven when they emptied box,
all then been franked, indelible;
the sorting office pigeon-holed,
a destination clarified.
I enjoyed words, the sound, the shape,
so told that I was grammar-good;
my estate mates ate bloater paste,
while I forced boater, crown of head.
Steered by string, pram wheels, orange box,
the stock car racing, pavement swerves—
lost to buttoned brass, leather brief—
told more sedate for station walk.
The track took me around the globe,
express train network privilege;
far friends remained in shunting yards,
few points to change direction, line.
The journeys of those loco’s, fast,
no better than they ought to be,
all rest on work in engine sheds,
those mates with spanners, oil and rags.
They raked more cash, but I gained pride,
they belly beer while I drown malt,
prize-books make way for plumber’s tools—
through sat exam, one day at school.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
BROWN
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
The Spanish Armada fell up
A brownish glittery run amock
The stupefying silence
All around me it carves me
Out in my nestled bustling crowd
The spring came this time
A greyish lantern up in her knitted robe
But all around me a global winter
Wither away before the great fall
Till it runs a river inside your deep-rooted
Falsifying truth
Telling lies before your own parlance
Keep it simple in the face of winter
Gloomy bedridden sickness
The river runs north
A zigzag mere glance of Jeremiah
The floated moon of two-penny opera
My moonsick silence
Just like the Spanish Armada
A brownish noisy bush
All glittered in the tapestry of bemoaning.
—Photo by Dawn Pisturino
MELANCHOLY SKY
—Dawn Pisturino, Arizona
I stand alone beneath a melancholy sky,
Tears mingled with the rain.
Just a few miles around the corner,
That’s where you live.
I long to go to you
And feel your arms wrapped around me.
But that’s not your style.
I worship you like a god
But fear the demon inside you.
Instead, I throw myself to the ground
And drown myself in a pool of tears.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
A CORNY KIND OF LOVE SONG
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO
Roses are valentines,
kisses are two.
And three? You and me!
Four? There are always new
possibilities behind the door.
Five? With will, comes drive,
with bees, a hive—
and love? We thrive.
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
ONE DAY AT SCHOOL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
I took a fresh, clean, blank, sheet
of white paper and easily folded it
into 5 equal panels; taDA!
the teacher had neither ever
designed a lesson plan to
accomplish this, nor seen one
she had the biggest smile on
her face, standing in awe of
someone who could do this
all those separate efforts and
approaches to teaching us the
3 R’s, grading our work, etc.
and here it was, zero work for
the teacher, 100-percent
accomplishment for her student
gave me cause to wonder how
many other assignments got higher
grades for less teacher labor
for example, my calligraphy was just
hundreds of hours of practice shy of
being terrible, but others shined
and my memory for dates in history
went in one ear and just got stuck
someplace where the sun don’t shine
but folding that paper elevated me
to cum laude status, gold crown, top
ranking, pat yourself on the back
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
HIS FIRST VISIT
—Taylor Dibbert, Washington, DC
He’s thinking about
His first visit
To see the
In-laws
And remembers noticing
Their tacky taste
In furniture,
Sadly,
It would soon
Become clear
That tacky furniture
Would be
The least
Of his worries.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
of Joe Nolan
SAD CAFÉ
—Vandana Kumar, New Delhi, India
Someone stirs a coffee at a nearby table
Everyone seems to…
Like it dark these days
Dark rooms filled with childhood scars
As it is, those stains don't leave
No one wants that milk
No one wants to lighten a color
Sugar isn't in vogue, either
Inside the cup
You brew heartbreak
And then let it shine
The darkness has that glint…
No adulteration
Yet shining like one amongst those florescent
bulbs
Recently added to an ancient neighbourhood park
Voices leak inside the sad café
—Public Domain Visual Courtesy
of Joe Nolan
SELLING MY HONDA FIT
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I am only selling it
Because I need an M-1 Abrams
With which to terrify my neighbors
Who say they support Trump.
Nothing personal.
I just think they’re insane
And need to send a message
Deep into their brains
That it’s time for a face-to-face
With Jesus,
Staring down the barrel of a tank.
An M-1 Abrams ought to do it.
Consider this purchase
Your charitable contribution
To a worthy cause
Of random re-education
And calling for a pause
To whatever it is
They’re trying to do
To get back to
Ozzie and Harriet.
—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan
A PERFECT WORLD
—Joe Nolan
He could have made a perfect world
In which we’d all agree,
In which we’d all be happy,
In which we’d all be free,
But, instead,
He made a world
Full of slavery,
Full of disagreement,
Full of wars and fears,
Full of pain and tears
And ours is not to question why
We were born to die,
Painfully.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
A BITTER THING
—Joe Nolan
It is a bitter thing, indeed,
When something
That couldn’t bleed
Has bled no more.
When crushed is a seed
That could have been a tree
When a life,
Otherwise happy,
Falls into misery.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
ALT-WORLDS APART
—Joe Nolan
If we can’t agree on our premises,
We won’t agree on conclusions.
We cannot walk together
Hand-in-hand
From if a, then b,
All the way down
To x, y and z.
We’ll just have
To agree to disagree
About everything from a to z
And there’ll be no reasoning
Between us.
We shall continue
To live in different,
Separate worlds,
Mentally,
Since we can’t agree
Even on a or b,
Rather lonely.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SEX WITH INTENTION
—Joe Nolan
Baby-making sex
Is drilling for offspring.
Gushers flow within.
___________________
Our thanks to today’s contributors, with their wide variety of poetry! Our Seed of the Week was One Day At School—be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week—but don’t be shy about sending work on any/all subjects.
Is it Presidents’ Day, or Presidents Day? I vote for the apostrophe, but I see it every-which way. There is clearly a sinister movement afoot to abolish the poor little curl from the English language. Anyway, today is a day of respect for those who have served this country in that difficult post.
We have two newcomers to the Kitchen today: Dawn Pisturino is a retired nurse in Arizona whose international publishing credits include poems, short stories, and articles. Her poetry has appeared in several anthologies, most recently in Hidden in Childhood: A Poetry Anthology; Wounds I Healed: The Poetry of Strong Women; and the 2023 Arizona Literary Magazine. She is a member of Mystery Writers of America and Arizona Authors Association. Welcome to the Kitchen, Dawn, and don’t be a stranger!
Vandana Kumar is a French teacher, translator, cinephile, Indie film producer and award-winning poet—in no particular order—who resides in New Delhi, India. Welcome to the Kitchen to you, too, Vandana! Tune in to the Kitchen next Friday for an Ekphrastic poem from her.
Vandana Kumar
When dogs try to study…
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
Poetry in Motion in Placerville
has been cancelled this morning,
but Sac. Poetry Center will present
Kamil Aim Muhammad tonight.
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?
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!
has been cancelled this morning,
but Sac. Poetry Center will present
Kamil Aim Muhammad tonight.
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?
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!
