—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
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He is a river withdrawn from the shore,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.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/30/20; 4/3/24)
He is a river withdrawn from the shore,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.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/30/20; 4/3/24)
THE FEET OF AN OLD WOMAN
Hammer toes, they're called.
Misshapen, they huddle together in shame.
When I walk, they rub against each other.
The contact does not bring them comfort.
Blisters and corns form between my toes.
Knobby monstrosities, they suffer
burning pain and numbness.
A reddish, calloused crust covers the soles
of my feet, leading to my toes, toes that
have lost their sense of direction
on feet that can no longer feel,
in socks and shoes, the ground beneath them.
My feet are gray and veiny, the ankles swollen,
the skin dry and peeling, thin as onion skin.
These are the feet of an old woman.
Once these feet were sure and steady.
They moved with confidence every which way.
They dug in and held up, no matter how far
or how long they were called upon to perform.
These dancers loved their steps, could glide
or spin, stretch, twist, or run.
I don't know when my feet changed.
It must have been gradual.
Maybe the shoes I wore were ill-fitting,
or I walked too much, used them up.
I understood that walking was
what they were meant for, and
these feet of mine loved to walk.
Had I walked less, had I not allowed them
freedom to be active and useful,
they would have been so unhappy.
I look at my feet uncertainly,
yet realize they match the rest of me.
They are the feet of an old woman.
A POEM SPOKEN
Words written on a page
absorbed, caught in the fiber
do not come fully alive,
just markings our eyes fly over.
They are without breath or vibrancy
dull and smothered, wanting resonance,
A poem should be voiced.
It should transmit feelings.
Its timbre must touch the soul.
AS RAIN FALLS
Dark clouds loom across the sky
filled with resentment and fury,
a heavy burden 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.
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/3/24)
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Poetry creates the myth, the prose writer draws its portrait.
—Jean-Paul Sartre
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for her fine poetry today, and to Joe Nolan for finding us these cool pix~
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!
