Monday, April 22, 2024

Celebrating Our Mother

Mother Earth
—Design by Nolcha Fox (with Microsoft Designer)
* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, Michael Ceraolo, and Joe Nolan
—Visuals by or Courtesy of Nolcha Fox,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan

wears roses in her braids. Her dress is leaves and dandelions. Gardens grow beneath her feet. When she changes her attire, autumn winds will blow spring flowers away.

—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
 Giant Plastic Tap by Benjamin Von Wong
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of 
Stephen Kingsnorth

—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
From rise to set, sun penetrates
as clouds of ancient warning brew;
from rise to fall, the tide recalls,
both waving, drowning, laps increase.
Our stalwart trees store while they stand,
but bark out shrinking rings unheard.
So much laid out here, sands of time,
this scene screened—though that sun less so—
the scree we see, but blind, our lot,
as stumble, tumbling, rubble drop.

We tick as plus, recycle box,
a make of plastic, self inflict,
because we’re molded, present past,
though imperfect, uncertain, tense.
Such giant steppes slow claim the globe,
dismissed as stuff of fairy tales.
But it’s not wicked, which to face,
for if ignored, the choice is made;
lagoons, retreat reefs of the rich
soon lost at sea, no landing, stripped.              

Dust devils swirl from stranded sand,
the islands soon to be engulfed,
and plastic balls once played on beach
long overshot as pellets, brine.
We’re woken, force of faucet gush,
but stop the cock, up underneath.
Poor pupils for the insights known,
we focus imperceptible,
sea, sky and tree with constancy,
but not ice melt, seep, drip of tap. 
 —Photo by Caschwa

—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

tell me again
your complaints
about too much dirt
but whisper, dearest
Mother Earth would be
most offended

tell me again
your opinions
about not enough time
but whisper, dearest
Grandfather Clock would
be most offended

tell me again
your concerns
about political trends
but whisper, dearest
Uncle Sam would be
most offended

tell me again
your loss of faith
in our government
but whisper, dearest
the Paparazzi repeat
all they see and hear
—Photo by Caschwa


sometimes when a food item is used up
the container, if clean, can be recycled;
however other times, the potato salad
or peanut butter, etc. leaves a residue
that cannot easily be removed, so this
becomes garbage to go to the landfill

there have been suggestions to rinse the
item, which of course involves using water,
but I pay dearly for that water

WATER POLICE: Do not use too much water!

ok, got a low flush toilet, and there’s some
gadget in my shower head to reduce the flow,
and I only water the lawn on certain
specified days, and I replaced the sprinkler
system with a drip line

WATER POLICE: You are using more water
this year than in the same time period last
year. Your water use is out of control. You,
lowly scumbag, are not doing your part!

how about this? according to signs posted in
the parks, the Parks Department commonly
uses recycled waste water, so what if we just
left our peanut jars there for them to power
rinse, transforming the jar into a material easily
handled by the normal recycling process? 
—Photo by Caschwa


I filed a grievance to the gag order
of the most blighted judges of America,
and the leftists’ picnic for which they stand,
tarnation, heavy fog, indecisive, denying
puberty and mistress to me
—Photo by Caschwa


there was an abrupt, loud knock
on my front door! Oh, what
could it be?

a neighbor stood there shyly
telling me that his little girls
were playing and their ball
came over the fence into my yard

it was not a meteor, did not leave a crater
not loose parts from a commercial airliner
just a colorful, adorable little rubber ball

which I found behind my backyard shed,
tossed back over the fence, and was
instantly rewarded with shrieks of
happiness from two little girls

this has happened before, from the neighbors
on both sides of my house, and I don’t mind it;
such a wonderful feeling being surrounded by
children who are delighted by such little things
 —Photo by Caschwa

—Michael Ceraolo, S. Euclid, OH

The former football-coach-turned-senator
show that he had sustained the brain damage
from the big hits taken by his players
Not Always Bringing Happiness…
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

—Michael Ceraolo

Jim Jordan 2023:
Because Molesters’ Lives Matter
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

—Michael Ceraolo

The former fighter-turned-senator
showed he had sustained brain damage from those
blows to the head
when he lamented the change in the chamber's rules
that prohibited him from caning someone
 Every cat has a story…
—Public Domain Photo

—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

It was out upon a limb
A Lisbon lady loved me.

She was also lesbian.
I asked her, “Why that might be?”
She said, “That’s how my maker made me.”

She said I was a funny man
And she took me lightly.

“Men are funny. Don’t you know?
They play at love and let you go.
It’s best
Not to pin
Too heavy a tail
Upon a reckless donkey.”

And so it was
We stayed together
For just a little while,
Until she heard her lover
Call for her return.
Whereupon, she left me there,
Running thither, sprightly. 
 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

—Joe Nolan

Long yourself into light,
Dear darling,
When the crushing darkness comes.

It will not be long,
Dear darling,
Before the darkness ends.

Love yourself into light,
Dear darling,
The way your love lit life.

Behold, his specter
Drifts across,
Happy you were his wife.

Long yourself into light,
Dear darling,
As the darkness disappears—
A new world is waiting there.


Today’s LittleNip:

—John Keats

The poetry of earth is never dead:

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run

From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;

That is the Grasshopper’s—he takes the lead

In summer luxury,—he has never done

With his delights; for when tired out with fun
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poetry of earth is ceasing never:

On a lone winter evening, when the frost

Has wrought a silence, from the stove there shrills

The Cricket’s song, in warmth increasing ever,

And seems to one in drowsiness half lost,

The Grasshopper’s among some grassy hills.


Our thanks to today’s fine contributors as we celebrate that Other Mother’s Day today. Nolcha Fox is fiddling around with illustrations; thanks to her for today’s and for last week’s, as well. And thanks to Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) for wonderful photos of his garden. Poppies everywhere are glorious this year, and I'm glad he sent a close-up of one.
NorCal poets will be saddened to hear that Phillip Larrea passed away unexpectedly this past April 1. For more information and to submit memories, condolences, to send flowers, or to plant a tree in his name (Arbor Day is approaching!), go to To see some of Phillip's poetry which appeared in Medusa's Kitchen, go to and

Deadlines coming up: May 1 is the deadline for the next
VOICES 2024 anthology, this one honoring D.R. Wagner. Further down the line, July 18 is the deadline for the 20th Annual Voices of Lincoln contest. For details about these and all things NorCal poetic, go to UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (


 Our thanks to Squirrel, who wishes us
a most satisfying Earth Day~
—Public Domain Photo

A reminder that
MoSt Poetry Book Club meets
in Modesto tonight at 6:30pm; and
Sacramento Poetry Center presents
an Earth Day Reading tonight, with
Stan Zumbiel & Julia Conner, 7:30pm.
For info about these and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
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.

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