Kathy Kieth, Diamond Springs, CA
—Visuals Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
WE ALL KNOW WHAT IT MEANS
—Nolcha Fox
We love last May Monday.
That’s when summer starts.
Dad pulls out his uniform
to march in the parade.
Mom gets all the food prepared
to picnic at the beach.
No more class till summer school.
The kids get in their shorts.
The sun stays out late,
we can sleep in,
time for sunscreen,
we're so happy summer's here.
_______________________
THREE SPRING HAIKU
—Kathy Kieth
early spring bullfrogs
clearing rusty winter throats:
time for new music
* * *
Spring turkeys kick-box
but flatten only the weeds.
Nearby, a peach falls.
* * *
fourteen white callas
en pointe under silver clouds
hands cupped for night rain
—Nolcha Fox
We love last May Monday.
That’s when summer starts.
Dad pulls out his uniform
to march in the parade.
Mom gets all the food prepared
to picnic at the beach.
No more class till summer school.
The kids get in their shorts.
The sun stays out late,
we can sleep in,
time for sunscreen,
we're so happy summer's here.
_______________________
THREE SPRING HAIKU
—Kathy Kieth
early spring bullfrogs
clearing rusty winter throats:
time for new music
* * *
Spring turkeys kick-box
but flatten only the weeds.
Nearby, a peach falls.
* * *
fourteen white callas
en pointe under silver clouds
hands cupped for night rain
PARADE ROUTE
—Nolcha Fox
The guys who walk
down Main Street
in their uniforms of old
each year are bent a little more
and walk a little slower.
The route is maybe shorter
than it was the year before,
and we carry umbrellas
just in case of heat or showers.
But they’re as proud
as they were on the day
they joined the service.
And they recall the men they lost
with every step they take.
_____________________
OLD GOLD
—Kathy Kieth
Bottom of the closet: spare room torn apart
in a fit of cleaning: wadded-up tissue
paper, worn-out shoes, broken VCR's sliding
around old photos, Christmas wraps. . . A small
battered box sleeps in the corner under a tangle
of coat hangers: inside, more boxes, one for each
life: father, mother, grandparents. Caches of gold
things: watches, class rings, small awards—crown
jewels of each now-ended life. In the bottom,
my own box: school pins, familiar treasures, forgotten
honors cast in old gold: spotlights buried under
VCR's, tacky tissue, worn-out shoes. . .
—Nolcha Fox
The guys who walk
down Main Street
in their uniforms of old
each year are bent a little more
and walk a little slower.
The route is maybe shorter
than it was the year before,
and we carry umbrellas
just in case of heat or showers.
But they’re as proud
as they were on the day
they joined the service.
And they recall the men they lost
with every step they take.
_____________________
OLD GOLD
—Kathy Kieth
Bottom of the closet: spare room torn apart
in a fit of cleaning: wadded-up tissue
paper, worn-out shoes, broken VCR's sliding
around old photos, Christmas wraps. . . A small
battered box sleeps in the corner under a tangle
of coat hangers: inside, more boxes, one for each
life: father, mother, grandparents. Caches of gold
things: watches, class rings, small awards—crown
jewels of each now-ended life. In the bottom,
my own box: school pins, familiar treasures, forgotten
honors cast in old gold: spotlights buried under
VCR's, tacky tissue, worn-out shoes. . .
PLANTING
—Nolcha Fox
Here in town, Memorial Day
is when we plant our flowers.
Snow is just a memory,
although she might surprise us.
We thank the Boy Scouts
for the most important planting
of the day. They place a flag
on veterans’ graves on each
Memorial Day.
________________________
GHOST SHIPS
—Kathy Kieth
Sea-wives wait for their fishermen.
Small lamplights tat the shoreline like
lace made of flickering fireflies
darning the unraveling waves.
Small lamplights tat the shoreline like
silhouette ghost ships in fog. Still
darning the unraveling waves,
glittery eyes watch for real sails, but see
silhouette ghost ships in fog. Still
the women reach for their husbands, as
glittery eyes watch for real sails, but see
no sign of relief from this pain.
The women reach for their husbands,
each day embroidered with fear,
no sign of relief from this pain.
Dread is the seam of a sea life.
Sea-wives wait for their fishermen—
lace made of flickering fireflies.
Dread is the seam of a sea life,
each day embroidered with fear.
—Illustration by Nolcha Fox (with
Microsoft Designer)
WAITING
—Nolcha Fox
I found a wooden bench
for I had heard it said
that good things come
to those who wait.
And so I sat there
patiently, through rain
and heat and hail,
and all I got was
bites and flu and
sunburn on my head.
____________________
Hard marble and plastic flowers
blanket this dry ground in the
land of graves
Mourners reaching out,
hoping, yearning, for
eternity. . .
—Kathy Kieth
FRIENDS
—Nolcha Fox
We’d been friends since we were kids.
We kept in touch as we grew up.
We lost each other, one by one
through suicide, senility,
cancer, heart attacks.
Fewer filled the seats at funerals.
I’m the last one left.
Who will mourn for me?
____________________
MURMURS IN THE KITCHEN
—Kathy Kieth
for Frannie-Alice
Yellowing windowshades muzzle
a hot summer day: muffle
brassy July sun that slants against
peeling linoleum. Two grey heads
bend over knife nicks in a wooden
table: murmur the worn-out secrets
of old women as stiff fingers curve
around chipped cups: grasp at
the soft flesh of each other's words:
embrace the slim gossip of this
gathering twilight. . . Yellowing
shades fold the room in liquid
amber: washing has faded tile bronze,
as the murmurs scatter across crowded
drainboards: bounce with a ping off
the cooling stove: roll along base-
boards and under dented pans: finally
come to rest: curl up in the china
cabinet alongside those few choice
pieces left behind by somebody's
grandmother, somebody's mother,
somebody's aunt. . .
______________________
Today’s LittleNip(s):
Memories are the key not to the past, but to the future.
—Corrie Ten Boom
______________________
A little something different today in the Kitchen, as Nolcha Fox and I collaborate. My thanks to her for fine poetry and pix!
______________________
—Medusa
Sgt. Snuggles reporting 22nd Yarn Division, Sir!
—Public Domain Photo
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!—
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