—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
DISSOLUTION OF THE MOON
On a hazy night a cloud passed in front of the moon.
It seemed to caress its full, pale roundness
as it would a loved one, tenderly, yet as it moved
the cloud split, surrounding parts of the once-round,
dear one, wanting to hold it so close as to be one
with it, causing the moon to appear to dissolve.
I looked up and saw the moon losing shape,
becoming cloudlike and thought, how sad
it would be if this ardent lover stole our moon,
sailing off through the sky and leaving earth
dark and desolate without its guiding glow,
the guardian of our safe passage through night.
On a hazy night a cloud passed in front of the moon.
It seemed to caress its full, pale roundness
as it would a loved one, tenderly, yet as it moved
the cloud split, surrounding parts of the once-round,
dear one, wanting to hold it so close as to be one
with it, causing the moon to appear to dissolve.
I looked up and saw the moon losing shape,
becoming cloudlike and thought, how sad
it would be if this ardent lover stole our moon,
sailing off through the sky and leaving earth
dark and desolate without its guiding glow,
the guardian of our safe passage through night.
ABANDONED
He is a river withdrawn from the shore,
while I, the shore, lie fallow and
wither with the winds of time,
even so,
I would not try to bring him back.
No trick, nor ploy would work.
There is a chasm between us.
He has receded far from me.
He left abruptly with the tide,
using an artful lie to ease his escape.
It seemed as though he had done this before.
It was cruel, unexpected, undeserved.
Angrily, I thought him a coward, a fool,
so different from the way I once saw him
in a girlhood dream born of desire.
We shall live separate lives with no contact.
He is a river withdrawn from the shore,
while I, the shore, lie fallow and
wither with the winds of time,
even so,
I would not try to bring him back.
No trick, nor ploy would work.
There is a chasm between us.
He has receded far from me.
He left abruptly with the tide,
using an artful lie to ease his escape.
It seemed as though he had done this before.
It was cruel, unexpected, undeserved.
Angrily, I thought him a coward, a fool,
so different from the way I once saw him
in a girlhood dream born of desire.
We shall live separate lives with no contact.
THE YIN AND YANG OF A TATTOOED MAN
We all called him Chick,
the nickname his parents gave him.
When I knew Chick, he was sixty-two to my
forty-one.
We worked together for a textbook publisher.
The eldest proofreader in the pool, he seemed
oddly out of place.
For forty years he had been in the U. S. Navy.
He was tan, muscular, and had many tattoos.
His voice was gruff and coarse.
Only a fluff of curly, white hair softened his
presence.
So proud was Chick of his tattoos, that he kept
the sleeves of his
T-shirts rolled up to his shoulders.
Tattoos covered both of his arms.
The ones I could see were of the common variety—
a ship, an anchor with "U.S. Navy” printed under it,
a mermaid, and a red heart with the word "Mom"
inside.
He said, with a sly little smile,
that the best ones were out of sight.
I must admit that I had negative feelings about him
when I first started working there.
As his kindness and patience were revealed, that
changed.
He sensed that I didn't care for his tattoos.
I have never been one to hide such feelings.
Chick lived in the San Gabriel mountains.
He had a wife, children, and grandchildren.
I asked him how his wife felt about the tattoos,
most of which he already had when they met.
He said she understood that he was comfortable
with having them and nothing else mattered.
He explained that when a man lives at sea
for months at a time with only other men,
he needs to establish a macho image.
Macho Chick took on yet another name
in his sailor life. His shipmates called him Chaz.
Whether Charles, Chaz, or Chick, he was,
in essence, adorably avuncular.
Although I abhorred his adorned skin,
I learned to appreciate the man inside.
We all called him Chick,
the nickname his parents gave him.
When I knew Chick, he was sixty-two to my
forty-one.
We worked together for a textbook publisher.
The eldest proofreader in the pool, he seemed
oddly out of place.
For forty years he had been in the U. S. Navy.
He was tan, muscular, and had many tattoos.
His voice was gruff and coarse.
Only a fluff of curly, white hair softened his
presence.
So proud was Chick of his tattoos, that he kept
the sleeves of his
T-shirts rolled up to his shoulders.
Tattoos covered both of his arms.
The ones I could see were of the common variety—
a ship, an anchor with "U.S. Navy” printed under it,
a mermaid, and a red heart with the word "Mom"
inside.
He said, with a sly little smile,
that the best ones were out of sight.
I must admit that I had negative feelings about him
when I first started working there.
As his kindness and patience were revealed, that
changed.
He sensed that I didn't care for his tattoos.
I have never been one to hide such feelings.
Chick lived in the San Gabriel mountains.
He had a wife, children, and grandchildren.
I asked him how his wife felt about the tattoos,
most of which he already had when they met.
He said she understood that he was comfortable
with having them and nothing else mattered.
He explained that when a man lives at sea
for months at a time with only other men,
he needs to establish a macho image.
Macho Chick took on yet another name
in his sailor life. His shipmates called him Chaz.
Whether Charles, Chaz, or Chick, he was,
in essence, adorably avuncular.
Although I abhorred his adorned skin,
I learned to appreciate the man inside.
Fireflies
AS RAIN FALLS
Dark clouds loom across the sky
filled with resentment and fury,
a heavy burden that they have
held too long. How much longer
must they wait to release the
anger that consumes them?
They cannot be ignored forever.
Let it rain freely. Let torrents splash
and enrich the earth and all life
that dwells upon this precious planet.
Only then can we be nourished,
and joyously free as falling rain.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Hope is a light
that emanates from you.
Concentrate and it grows bright
to show you where you need to go
and what you need to do.
—Linda Klein
__________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!
Dark clouds loom across the sky
filled with resentment and fury,
a heavy burden that they have
held too long. How much longer
must they wait to release the
anger that consumes them?
They cannot be ignored forever.
Let it rain freely. Let torrents splash
and enrich the earth and all life
that dwells upon this precious planet.
Only then can we be nourished,
and joyously free as falling rain.
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Hope is a light
that emanates from you.
Concentrate and it grows bright
to show you where you need to go
and what you need to do.
—Linda Klein
__________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry!
Hope is a light…
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!
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!
