—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Julie A. Dickson and Joe Nolan
Betrayal of the heart
makes me think of being thwarted,
a lost love—left broken-hearted
but what I mean this time is that
my own heart has betrayed me
tell-tale heart beating behind the wall
of my chest, threateningly
a brief twinge or flutter, a bird flapping
wings futilely inside its cage, surrounded
ribs, muscles twitching—pounding
uncertain rhythms, when they should
be beating a regular sound, not that
obtrusive tattoo of a staccato drumbeat
Just the knowledge of heredity, heart
muscle thickening in outrage at stress,
blood flow diminished as water squeezed
through a slot canyon, leaving me
at times, breathless and weary, wondering
what I did, for my heart to betray me.
makes me think of being thwarted,
a lost love—left broken-hearted
but what I mean this time is that
my own heart has betrayed me
tell-tale heart beating behind the wall
of my chest, threateningly
a brief twinge or flutter, a bird flapping
wings futilely inside its cage, surrounded
ribs, muscles twitching—pounding
uncertain rhythms, when they should
be beating a regular sound, not that
obtrusive tattoo of a staccato drumbeat
Just the knowledge of heredity, heart
muscle thickening in outrage at stress,
blood flow diminished as water squeezed
through a slot canyon, leaving me
at times, breathless and weary, wondering
what I did, for my heart to betray me.
Anywhere
Before I ever left my home
before I ever traveled anywhere
there were maps
plastered up, haphazardly on walls
surrounding my father’s desk area
down cellar
taped up, unceremoniously on poured
concrete walls, over rebar ends that
poked through
making holes in maps where cities lay,
formerly creased maps from the folds of
National Geographic.
When traveling to the cellar, arms full
of laundry bound for washing, I lingered
at the maps
a sock slipping to the cold floor, unnoticed
while I followed endless mountain ranges
and highways
imagining a road trip across Europe or even
North America, stopping leisurely at towns
I couldn’t pronounce.
My father had been to Germany in WWII,
and had no interest to travel, my mother
loved to explore
to immerse herself in culture; I thought she
should have been a history major, instead
of English
correcting every grammar faux pas uttered
from our lips, proof-reading signs and menus
until I followed suit.
I went nowhere, but on the cellar walls lay
a world I could discover, imagined trips,
anywhere to escape
like the pages and characters I often read,
distancing me from narcissistic control and
volatile rage
that sent me to my room, or to the cellar maps
wishing for that road trip, more real than books,
a place to flee.
I used to
worry about things all the time,
whether dishes were done
floor was swept
but then I realized those were things
taught to me, to worry over
they could wait
while I read books to my children,
cooked delicious meals, played games
and music.
Once I was like her, a worrier
but once I gazed into those eyes, happy
to have me near
none of those things seemed to matter;
as long as my arms were around them
all was well.
Everything
wet
tears streaming
down faces,
wet
slippery,
road kill
left weeping
squirrel-mate,
hawk flattened,
children shot
friends, parents
in front of school.
wet
tears shed for loss,
humanity, habitat
wet
blood shed for what
we have done.
Poet, mother
My kids do not read my poetry
memories, stories, incidents, solitary
child, lonely teen, inexperienced parent
tried her best, felt her way along
Schedule or no schedule, on demand feedings
sleepless nights, long days, bumped heads
kissed boo-boos, singing ABC’s
I really wanted children in a world
where not everyone wants a child
Look back in words, prolific poet
lost my parents, gaze longingly at the adults
my children have become, the ones that don’t
read my poetry. It’s Ok
I remember what they have forgotten
days of learning, playtime crying over lost friends
and dead fish, burying the family cat, death
of grandparents, countless dates and jobs.
I leave this, my life in poetic form in case
they ever want to know who I am
besides their mother
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Grief can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life’s search for love and wisdom.
—Rumi
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Julie Dickson for visiting the Kitchen today with her fine poetry and with public domain photos to go with it (also from Joe Nolan, below)~And Gung Hay Fat Choy to our Chinese friends (and the rest of us!) for a happy and prosperous New Year 2024!
My kids do not read my poetry
memories, stories, incidents, solitary
child, lonely teen, inexperienced parent
tried her best, felt her way along
Schedule or no schedule, on demand feedings
sleepless nights, long days, bumped heads
kissed boo-boos, singing ABC’s
I really wanted children in a world
where not everyone wants a child
Look back in words, prolific poet
lost my parents, gaze longingly at the adults
my children have become, the ones that don’t
read my poetry. It’s Ok
I remember what they have forgotten
days of learning, playtime crying over lost friends
and dead fish, burying the family cat, death
of grandparents, countless dates and jobs.
I leave this, my life in poetic form in case
they ever want to know who I am
besides their mother
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Grief can be the garden of compassion. If you keep your heart open through everything, your pain can become your greatest ally in your life’s search for love and wisdom.
—Rumi
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Julie Dickson for visiting the Kitchen today with her fine poetry and with public domain photos to go with it (also from Joe Nolan, below)~And Gung Hay Fat Choy to our Chinese friends (and the rest of us!) for a happy and prosperous New Year 2024!
“I remember what they have forgotten…”
—Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
—Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
A reminder that
Nevada County Reads
takes place in Nevada City
this afternoon; as well as
Mosaic of Voices in Lodi; then
Elixir of Love this evening; plus
Love Jones Vibe—
both events in Sacramento.
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!
Nevada County Reads
takes place in Nevada City
this afternoon; as well as
Mosaic of Voices in Lodi; then
Elixir of Love this evening; plus
Love Jones Vibe—
both events in Sacramento.
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!
