Traveling to Portland on the Coast Starlight
Express, I fall asleep and dream that I’m dozing
on a train, drinking G+T, reading the same book
I hold in my lap, a Ruth Rendell mystery I've read
a dozen times. Knowing the villain’s fate, where a
nd how the mean, murderous girl will be caught, is
soothing to me, like tea and toast. I prefer life
predictable.
I have no idea why I grab a stranger’s case from
the baggage-go-round; it was so easy, even elegant,
Yes, it seems to wink, let’s go somewhere fun!
You Red-Caps keep silent now, here's a fiver to
nod politely while I walk away.
So, this is how it feels to torment a stranger, to
ruin carefully made plans. How far must I lug this
heavy bag, packed with his gross intimate junk? I
need my nice things, my Tanqueray, my sleep aids,
my book.
At the Amtrak left-behind counter, the customer rep
tiredly beckons me forward.
BACK YARD SUMMERS
Long days, back when the sun was benign,
my sister and I lie on our stomachs
reading Agatha Christie mysteries.
We can’t imagine being anything but seventeen
and slender, but just in case, as a hedge
against age and thickening
we eat salads, drink Tab, smoke
Marlboro Lights, smear Bain de Soleil
over each other’s backs.
The days are endless.
The days are exactly the same.
We lie in our fenced back yard, desperate
for something violent, interesting.
Neither of us know yet that sunshine can disappear.
That we might spend weeks, years,
trying to find a place
that can hold us, saying,
you can turn your backs now, safely.
STAND STILL WHILE THE VERTIGO
PASSES
Now, time for admitting things
reappear at daybreak,
are indifferent to the Latin names
That we reach for each other’s hands
___________________
RULES FOR LONELY DANCERS
It’s dangerous to stand too close to the river’s edge
Only a loon should expect kindness
from dank green water,
railings steeled with despair.
Sail to Mexico instead.
When mariachi bands light up La Cucaracha,
even the shyest dancer
can get up and twirl,
or sit in her seat and sway.
LAST DANCE
Frost everywhere this morning; those roses never
know when to quit.
own face.
Faucet handle screeches, and a trombone jumps!
Old Victrola,
Three months until spring.
___________________
___________________
—Medusa
Sierra Poetry Festival
takes place in Grass Valley today;
Mosaic of Voices will meet
in Lodi this afternoon; and
Sacramento Poetry Alliance features
Luisa Giulianettti and Terri Dawn Kent
in Sacramento this afternoon.
For info about these 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!