Letters From Home

—Poetry by Hongwei Bao, Nottingham, UK
—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain 

A TASTE OF HOME

BLACK CAT

Dad points to the shadow
of a boy running
in the dazzling afternoon sun
around the neighbourhood
in ragged clothes,
hair covered with dust,
limbs full of life,
chasing a black cat.  

This could be your life:
indulging in small happiness,
an instant pleasure,
a lifelong regret.

Instead, you’ve chosen this life:
eyes glued to books, mind
travelling thousands of miles,
observing other people’s lives,
feeling their happiness.

The difference is:
you’ll travel far and dream big,
attending university in a city,
having a splendid future; That boy
will stay here, in this town all his life,
becoming a farmer or mechanic,
worrying about daily meals and bills.

Dad’s smile lingers
in the bright future
he’s designed for me.

My heart follows
the little boy
and the black cat. 

 

 

 

 

BLESSING

Mum gave me a prayer card when I left home.
A small, thin piece of glittering golden plate,
a good luck charm: Buddha on one side,
Sanskrit text on the other, which I can’t read.

Take this with you, Mum said,
the buddha will be with you,
protect your safety,
bless your prosperity.

I’m not religious, and have often laughed
at Mum for being superstitious.
The card in my wallet has travelled with me
from one country to another.

Mum, it’s not the magical power
of the Buddha that I believe in.
It’s your warm gaze that accompanies me
on every step of my journey. 

 

 

 

 

SUMMER

I visit family in China every summer
when the moon is as red as a hot sickle.  

Mum turns the aircon to its maximum
capacity, a continuous current of cool air.

Dad takes out watermelon from the fridge,
white frost on red cubes.

Sister throws all my clothes into the washer,
and hangs them up like festival banners.

The big, white, fluffy Samoyed sits
on my feet, head rubbing against my legs.

I think of home in the UK, the cool, damp English
weather, the lonely, sleepless nights, and smile. 

 

 

 

 

A TASTE OF HOME

It’s the third time this week I’ve been
in this restaurant. Spring couplets
on the doorframe. Red lanterns
above the window. Cherry blossoms

on the wall. I sit down at a corner table,
select a Moo Shu pork dish from the menu:
golden omelette adorned by green
cucumbers and black wood-ear mushrooms.

A middle-aged Chinese woman speaks
to the phone in broken English.
A girl, perhaps a university student, scurries
around with plates in her hands.

People, old and young, are soaked
in the white steam of Hot Pot, the spicy
aroma of Kung Pao Chicken, the heart-
wrenching canton pop from the nineties.

Please don’t blame me for frequenting
this place where many other restaurants
are nearby. The place feels like home:
its sight, its sound, its flavour, its taste—

 

 

 

KNUT

I call him Knut.

He’s not that cuddly, white bear from the Berlin Zoo, a media celebrity. He’s from the North Pole, living in a hostile environment covered by ice and snow all year round. I don’t know where his habitats are, or whether he has a family. I imagine there must be someone else living in this ice-bound territory, someone he cares about.

When I saw him that day, he was walking along a stream. The sky was azure, and the water was crystal. One could see the white clouds on the mirror-like surface and the rocks at the bottom. Suddenly he stopped. Something in the stream caught his attention. Was it fish? Or was it his own reflection? He sat by the stream for some time. Motionless. What was he thinking about? Did the white polar bear in the water remind him of someone, his parents, his friends, or perhaps his own youth, the lost happy times?

I didn’t know how long I had been watching him. He was still standing there, by the stream. I could hear the wind blowing and the river murmuring. In this white, frozen world, there were just the two of us. Did he know I was around? Did he know I was watching him? That didn’t matter. He was the sovereign in his own world. But what a life would it be if he were the only being in that world?

I felt my frozen hands. I felt my stiff face. I felt the moisture in my eyes. I saw myself in him. A younger self, a self I had a complex relationship with, a self I had decided to part with. 

 

 

 

RAPESEED FIELDS

On my recent visit back
to the hometown, My cousin
points to a gigantic hole in the ground,
half-surrounded by blue metal barriers
and grey concrete barricades:

This is the foundation for a twenty-
storey high tower block, The first
phase of an eco-friendly residential
complex, surrounded by green
lawns and rose gardens, Lotus
ponds and pavilions. Sports facilities
in front of a kindergarten.

Following his flourishing
arm and empty gaze, I see myself
seated in the pavilion, a gentle
breeze brushing my face, small
waves rippling in the pond,
goldfish playing gleefully
with waterlilies.

In five years, matchboxes of lights
will twinkle in the dark evening sky.
In ten years, the stars will hide
behind radiating city lights
amid thickening white fogs.  

The only thing that connects
me to this place will be the name
of the metro station, Rapeseed Fields,
reminding me of my childhood self
roaming and vanishing
in a vast sea of golden waves.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.

—Maya Angelou

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Hongwei Bao for his fine poetry about home today, and hopes that you have some sort of safe place in your life~

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 Letters From Home

Muggins & The Fog Man

 —Poetry by Michael Lee Johnson,
Downers Grove, IL
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy
of Michael Lee Johnson

 

 

CROWS


Tired of hunger
tired of emptiness
late February winter snow—
crow claws locked in
on my condo balcony
steel railings.
Their desperate eyes
focus in on my green eye
sockets—
their search begins,
I go to bed, no ruffled feathers showing—
their imaginary dreams of green—
black wings fly flapping—
the hunt, scavengers, over barren fields—
shadows in the way
now late August
summer sun
bright yellow
turning orange—
hard corn.

 

 

 

 

FOG MAN
 
There is a stranger in the fog
screaming into this harbor tonight.
A lonely son-of-a-bitch without
a mother or a lover.
He screams obscenities
with bad breath.
There is a way the moon
investigates a sailor in fog
at night, sheltering no one.
Hungover in the lead piping
suffering from myopia
but downing in pride,
hyperopia magnified.
These memories are distant.
A lady now of a dream
still walker on sliding sand
near that beach, leaving
sounds of her own
where winds tell the
fog man where to cry.
Life a saint in blue mist
a roller coaster, thrill
master-slave driver
of its own.

 

 

 

 


LIKE ZEN

This version
is tacitly the best.
I am in the morning sun
when the artist arrives.
My pair of pajamas
sleep in frozen-still patterns.
I turn my face oriental with my poems.
Cherry blossoms, I turn inside out
light pink to white, brevity, for a short
time then walk alone, then die.
I hear the sound of notes in my ears
approaching on silent footprints.
I enter the monastic life; abandon untimely
meals, vulgar songs, and dance, mime statuette,
toss garlands, toss racy clothing,
abstain skunk of perfumes abstain no visitors.
I leave all sinful shadows behind.
But I am of this world, not out of this world.
I swear way too much and pray too little.
The way of Zen and Jesus is a boxing match.
Crack and smack a curse—
twigs break silence.

 

 

 

 


I DON’T MIND, MUGGINS

Hello Muggins,
my babe,
I don't mind you if—
crazy Persian cat,
copper eyes, emerging
from Britain, ancient Persia, & Turkey
you are a sabotaging, spoiled little brat.
sniffing, shanghai glue,
& that old Skoal snuff box
left wide open again.

Sneezing as if,
spirits your way,
red peppers, peppers
Carolina Reaper plants
scarlet insane chilies
stuffed in your
pink nostrils.

Your life is now set on fire
overboard abandon my computer
keyboard, you leap for safety,
scammer, slide those kitty feet.
Kitty's feet slide skimmer
across newly waxed
Brazilian Cherry
hardwood floor—
you pole vault, ground floor
pussy cat style leap
into my open left side,
over-sized, bib overalls pocket.


___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I have cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.

—Jean Cocteau

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Johnson for today’s fine poetry, and for sending photos to accompany it!

 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 








 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Into the Darkening Woods

A Dark Note

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam

 

 

WHERE SHADOWS PLAY WITH SUNBEAMS 

—Joyce Odam
After Wistman's Wood, Devon, Dartmoor, England

In the woods, many shadows and
many sunbeams play through trees that
guide me in, and in, till I am deeper in.

The trees grow thicker. The shadows shift.
The sunlight flickers in and out of branches
that replicate their patterns on the moving ground.

Turning circles lead me deeper—hearing now,
the snaps and rustles—the loss of place—
the alien blend of peace mixed up with fear—

the feeling that I don’t belong : shadows turn into
night,
unseen birds are closing up their songs, and I am in
the center of a center with no direction now.

How do I belong to this…


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/26/17;
12/24/19; 10/25/22)

 

 

 

Against the Dark II

BEGIN WITH A PARABLE
—Robin Gale Odam

Before the measureless sky a
hill rises out of a black forest
of trees.

     in the firmament
     outside of eternity
     in another life

On the slope of the hill a small
tree holds fast to its leaves,
leaning away from the shade
they cast—leaning toward the
seraphic light cascading over
the tops of the forest trees, the
ones in the darkness.

     under the heaven
     tragedy and ecstasy
     there is a season

______________________               

A THREADING OF WORDS
 —Joyce Odam



 

I thought it best to weave them


as they came, let them be what they are


to each other—I, their collector—



 

late October words


at the verge 


of winter.



 

Verge:—


there’s a word,


I let it merge with the others,



 

turn gold, 


turn rust red 


on surrendering trees,



 

let the words color


let them fall


like October leaves—



 

I, who love them, summer the words,


and some of them take pity,


saying, here, take me.

                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/18/11)

 

 

 

A Guarded Woods II—The Raptor

 

breath of aging tree
all of thunder in one sketch
darkening the sky

—Robin Gale Odam

_______________________

THROUGH THE TREES
—Robin Gale Odam

lacy nest of eggs
filled with fragile promises
bird of cliché blue
holding heaven in its beak
the sigh of wind—the dreaming girl
                       

(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2018) 

 

 

 

The Lullaby of Another Time

 

THE DIFFERENT LANDING
—Joyce Odam

A child
going into a fairy tale,
that woods
of deep light,
the playground
full of childhood rules
and riddles…

what waits in the center?
                    a way out?
a way never to return?

the child goes in
and becomes a part
of what is there,
becomes the hushed sound,
the figment of light,
the different ending
to the story.
                           

(prev. pub. in Red Cedar Review (Of Colorado)
Issue #4, 1993; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/29/19) 

 

 

 

Beautiful Weeping Bird II

PROPHETIC DREAMING 

—Joyce Odam

every night the horse gallops through the frantic
dream through the white trees in the moonlight
carrying the frightened princess away from
the danger—everywhere now . . .
 
the horse
never catches
its flowing mane in
the rustling branches,
or loses its footing in
the agitated roots or in
the loosening stones of
the wakening woods
that have only one
way through . . .

do not worry—this is a story I made up to scare
you :
the princess is the dreamer—the horse is the
memory
the princess will lose when the dream is over . . . 

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/26/17)

 

 

 

Her Counterpoint

TWO OBSERVINGS
—Joyce Odam

Strangely sensual without the body—flattened into
pure shining texture for the observing room light.
her kimono, lying open on the bed—

            ~

In the late summer woods—a leaf has fallen into
a shaft of sunlight and lies, softly shining there,
its edges lifted by the occasional small breezes.

                                                         
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/20/12; 3/17/20)

 

 

 

 A Listening

certainty of wind
measured whispering of time
migration of song

—Robin Gale Odam
After “The Aim Was Song” by Robert Frost


(prev. pub. in Brevities, February 2017;
Song of the San Joaquin, Spring 2018)

_______________________

OH, HUMAN MIND
 —Joyce Odam

. . . as far as the cold white moon can see
that mountain range
that cold gray sea
that tiny ship
adrift in time
that endless sky
through which one final soul must climb

. . . what loneliness is quite as deep
what vow to break
what promise keep . . .
oh, human mind
that wants to stay
and wants to go
and dares not pray
to emptiness, or its rebuke

. . . what is the scope in such vast reach
beyond what eye
and mind can know
one brilliant moon
shines like a clue
horizon gone
the mountains strain
the waves repeat
time’s ship has vanished . . . far or deep

                                             
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/15/20)

 

 

 

No Echo

 

THE ULTIMATE RELIGION
—Joyce Odam

Unable to breathe
city man
longs for deep woods

for green silences
for snap of little sounds in
night’s sharp cold

for long hill to climb
to find
a virgin place

in which to plant
the acorn that he carries
in his pocket.

                        
(prev. pub. in Driftwood, 1972;
Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/24/15)

 

 

 

Stillness of the Quiet

 

REVELATIONS OUT OF INEXPERIENCE
—Joyce Odam

. . . so swiftly go the shadows of Time, the shifting
of balances, the paths we took into the tangle . . . a
wonderland of unreality . . . the woods so soft in the
filtering moonlight with their tiny trees and dim-

inishing distance, their curious paths of strained 

light into another opening . . .

. . . it was the cure, the cure for silence and inter-

ruptive sound, a moment out of such a word as 

Time, immeasurable, such a word as, ‘lived by’ or 

‘waited on’, and we lost it after all, being too im-

mersed in trying to realize the meaning, and 

import, and how strange it felt, saying it, as if it 

were a miracle, somehow that was believed in

. . . and it was so small we almost missed it, so real
we almost didn’t believe it, it was something we
wanted to remember, tell each other about, like a
confession, it was that important . . . and here we 

are, trying to conjure it again, as if our love 

depended on it.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

CALANDO
—Robin Gale Odam

When the credits roll, when happily
every after is embraced and the story
cleaves to a strand of illusion, the music
becomes slower and softer, dying away.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, Oct 2016;
Sacramento Poetry Anthology 2017;
Song of the San Joaquin, Winter 2017)

___________________

Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam have led us into the woods today—our Seed of the Week was Dark Sounds in the Woods, and Joyce and Robin have taken us there with their fine poetry and visuals. Our thanks to them for these dreams and fantasies! For more about Wistman's Wood, including lovely photos, see https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/wistman-s-wood/.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Lust”. Yes, lust. Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 “How do I belong to this…”
—Public Domain Illustration

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Twin Lotus Thai Fourth Tuesdays
presents
Moira Magneson, J. Rowe, &
Carol Lynn Stephenson Grellas
tonight, 6pm, in Sacramento.
For info about this 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!

 

Did someone say, “Lust”?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flowers in the Woods

 Good morning!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Victor Kennedy, Sayani Mukherjee, Caschwa,
and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos by Joe Nolan
and Medusa

 

 

FEEL IT
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Long before it reaches
out with scratch you,
you can hear the darkness
of the woods surround you
with a hissing sound
that raises hairs
upon your arms.
You walk more quickly,
break into a run
as if a run was what
your feet were meant to be.
Cold sweat runs down
your cheeks, your chin,
you know you’re in
for it unless you pick
up speed. Indeed,
you’re in the house.
You latch the door.
Now you can breathe.
You peek out curtains.
You expect to see a beast.
You look into the beady
eyeballs of a

mouse.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BUT SEMITONES
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Deflected, echoed, tree by trunks,
most masked by thickets, thickset shrubs,
cue clouded cover, canopy,
but bound by buffet, brushwood’s sway,
bough bow limbs lurch, low bend the knee.
Beware rough bark, like snap yap dogs,
sense snarl, howl, growl, imagined whines,
how can these sounds seem dark, save mood,
for pitch is not illumined tone.
but resonance that we supply
sonorous deep, without bell toll?

Wychwood of tempting candy peal,
that waking kiss or breadcrumb trail—
those nightmares laundered through deep sleep
as if our frights, rescue, conjoined.
Is it the tales of yore, our lore,
the grimmest which, so fairy called?
Is it to exorcise that steer
we exercise, rehearse their name?

So rustle, breeze, cracked greenstick tears,
those tiers of fear, of Babel din,
those masked, well-hidden, concealed tears,
confessional from undergrowth.
Our footsteps crunching over twigs
is isolating, if at night,
as moonlit shadows trail our own—
no comfort, seeming not alone.

But look, hear, listen in the woods—
its mycorrhiza underground—
some birdsong, creepers, nuthatch search,
leap squirrel, badger, even deer—
but fallow, not the stag with bark—
and find diversity at work.
Less forest as a dapple glade
with music for a classic taste;
here shades mix with a brighter note
leave groundwork of a golden fall.
To me the screech owl natural,
like stretch of bat wing, pipistrelle,
as hungry hedgehogs snuffle through
the peaty past, harmonious,
key only dark sounds, semitones. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

WHERE HAVE THE MUSES GONE?
—Victor Kennedy, Maribor, Slovenia

When I held her in my arms
I felt that something had gone.
She was still warm, but still.
I was young and it was my first encounter with death.

Since then, I’ve met death often,
pets, parents, friends.
After the last breath comes a stillness
and life is gone.

I feel that absence too
in people who are still alive,
but something is missing:
love, joy, desire.

I feel it in myself,
something slipping away,
love of music, of connection,
curiosity, novelty, interest.

The God of the Waxing Year’s battle
draws to its inevitable end,
but I struggle on, writing down memories,
trying to find meaning in them.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BREATHE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

The maple trees told me it's in the ashen branches
Where the squirrels hide
Their little child-soul set afar from human conditions
I surmise the longing of things
From near and far
Where the river is spread out against the sky
The night stars are falling around
I saw in a sleep
The jumpings and quiverings of non-living things
Stay in my mind like a biscuit parchment paper
I blew the dandelions too loudly
Alas they catch the midheaven star
The North node of all our dreams where they shine
I now think of the maple trees
The red apples sodden
With arched bow whites
I know not what to name these
Perhaps they carry their own destiny
A hidden blush of lost stars and milkyways
I breathe in thee. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

VILLAGE
—Sayani Mukherjee

A lonely cottage by the river wall
The sun-scooped daisy under my beige wall
A pointed facade, a long overturn over there
To mend and bask the town meadows
As I lay dipping in the river
I hear cascades over my rimmed lens
A lovely blossom it was, it lay open dust
The moonbeamed sun is lowly now
To hung the home-grown lilies
The blue painted carpenter sang a choir
A thousand lullabyed biddings
For the village was aglow in the pure love. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ANCIENT
—Sayani Mukherjee

The drunken swiftness of the waves
Calms me
From a reverie of unpredictable marches
A lost song of victory and losses
As she possessed the divinity of all things
Things high and low lay bare
The stratum of bounty Hastings
The unnameable spoken mantra, the soma of life
Lying all over the fringe of all things
Knitted in a divine mastery
I knew the ancient waters, the green scenery
As the rivers co-mingle with the ever-chanting song 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

CONTEMPLATING HERBICIDE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

got a lot of plants
the work of my son and me
but there’s a dark cloud that mires
the delight of victory
the weeds are winning

Dandelions on
the lawn, uninvited guests
dark sounds fill the morning air
didn’t come at our behest
the weeds are winning

Grandpa Weeder works
one at a time, all day long
push down, pull up, toss in can
not a lovely dark woods song
the weeds are winning

Morning Glories, known
to be photogenic plants
vining everywhere there is
handy pathways for the ants
the weeds are winning

Oleanders, ugh!
toxic root, stem, and leaf, too
paid a service gobs of dough
to remove all, but they
left one here, wouldn’t you know?
the weeds are winning 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE OTHER MEANING
—Caschwa

drown spelled backwards is:
N-word

bump stock spelled backwards is:
Weapon of Mass Destruction

campaign donation spelled backwards is:
lobby influence

unreported income spelled backwards is:
primary support for Supreme Court Justices

Civil War spelled backwards is:
Survival of the Fattest 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BONE FETISH
—Caschwa

why is it that the parlors
of tattoo artists seem to
feature more bare bones
than painted skin?

it follows to reason that
cemeteries for tattoo artists
would bury everything
except the bones, leaving
them above ground for
full viewing

maybe there are some people
(start with me) who would
prefer that the implements
used to paint the tattoo not
descend all the way down
to the bone 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE MEANING OF JANUARY 6TH
—Caschwa

people ask me what January 6th means to me
to which I reply that it was a very, very dark
time in my life; they like and accept that short
answer and ask me to elaborate, to which I reply
that was 8 days before I was born

then comes the spin, that was not the answer
they were hoping to hear, they wanted me to
list all of the bad people and bad acts from
that fateful date, and my answer didn’t touch
on those. However, my answer aptly did
fulfill their hopes, if one knows how to employ
the poetic device of metaphor

a very dark time could be likened to the black
blindfolds worn by the people responsible for
vetting the nominees to be the 45th President;
if only they had done their job competently and
faithfully our nation might have been spared
quite a bit of pain and suffering

so I’ll stick with my original answer, and if
someone doesn’t understand all that it means,
they need to read more poetry

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

LISTENING
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Listen to
A lantern
In the corner

Shining sound
That lights up
Like a flute

Underneath
A canopy
Shading a
Bright, sunny day,

Yesterday’s
Nightmares
Still haven’t
Gone away.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

OSMOTIC PRESSURE OF MASS CONSENT
—Joe Nolan

The osmotic pressure
Of mass consent,
Like a tsunami,
Pushing information
Through all
Brain-cell walls
Nearly
Simultaneously,
By signals sent from cell-phone towers,
By the power of 20G,
Would infiltrate our dreams
With images of Grand Kum-Bah-Yahs—
Dancing around bonfires
Burning away all dis-consent
Leading us into the hive
Or the borg
Or the new, universal religion
Where man is god and
Earth rules over us all,

Would replace fraudulent elections
Conducted with black-box
Digital voting machines
Hooked up to the internet
In which votes could be flipped
From any location on Earth
With just a tapping of keys.

Pressure would build
Beyond all control.
Incumbents’ heads would roll.
The same information
Would block all disinformation
Resulting in nearly
Universal acclamation
Of new candidates
Who’d won our hearts and souls
To lead us into damnation
Under a one-world-government  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

DE NOVO EMPORER
—Joe Nolan

The king wants to always be king
No matter who kneels at his throne.

So does Xi Jin Ping.
He changed the rules
To be leader for life.

Deng Xiao Ping
Put term-limits in place
To time out
Hungry kings,
But another hungry king came along
And turned back the clock to the time of Mao,
When latter-day emperors
Could be so forever.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

MISTER SAM
—Joe Nolan

My favorite furry creature
Is my sweet dog, “Mister Sam.”
Although she is a lady,
She thinks she is a man.
She practices her manners,
But her friends think it’s a scam:

“How could you be
So eager to please?
It’s shameful for a dog
To beg on its knees.”

“It’s because
I love my man!”

She’s just as strong
As any dog
And loves to run
When she’s set free,
Released from her leash.

It doesn’t matter
Which she
Thinks she is,
I love her.
She’s my darling bitch.
I run her when I can.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

FRIENDLY BLESSINGS
—Joe Nolan

God bless you
Dear friend,
God bless you!

Or maybe you’re
Blessing me?

Maybe you’re not
In some bardo
Or suffering
Purgatory.

Maybe you came
To visit—
To smile
With your biggest
“Hello!”

Maybe your spirit is free
As it always used to be
When you were
Still here
With me.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Where flowers bloom so does hope.

—Lady Bird Johnson

____________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors, and a fine showing it is (some of them on our Seed of the Week, Dark Sounds in the Woods).

In addition to the readings coming up this week, don’t miss the annual Ekphrastic Art, Poetry & Jazz Night in Carmichael on Friday; and on Saturday, both the 3rd Annual Calaveras Poetry Festival: A Cavalcade of Laureates in Murphys, and the online Sierra College Intro to Eco-Poetry. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry events on the calendar this week.

Tim Kahl’s new book, Drips, Spills, Bursts, Tangles & Washes, will soon be available from Cold River Press. Info and order it at https://www.coldriverpress.com/HTML/AUTHORS/kahl/drips.htm/.

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
will feature Bob Stanley,
Lawrence Dinkins, and Mike Shea
tonight, 7:30pm.
For info about this 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!

 

Beachin'!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trigger Point

 —Collaborative Poetry (Tan-Renga)
by Uchechukwu Onyedikam of Lagos, Nigeria,
and Christina Chin of Malaysia
(Italicized lines are by italicized authors)
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

1

the shower
screen door shrouds
with mist
before his reasoning
passion

 

—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam 

 

 

 

 

2

clutching her chest
gasping for breath
crawling
to the dresser
inhaler

—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam 

 

 

 

3

room door
she calls for help
asthma attack
tobacco smoking
a trigger point 


—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam 

 

 

 

 
4

limp
at the ER
fighting for life
on a drip
reverse blood flow

—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam 

 

 

 

 
5

husband
called to the bedside
she breathes her last
seated with
the last words

—Christina Chin/Uchechukwu Onyedikam

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

People say smoking will give you diseases. What they don’t know is that it cures salmon.

—Anonymous

_________________

—Medusa, thanking Christina and Uchechukwu for joining us with another fine collaboration today! For more about tan-renga, see https://www.graceguts.com/essays/an-introduction-to-tan-renga/.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills
features Dianna Henning & Lara Gularte
today in Camino, 2pm; and
Poets in the Vines meets in Lodi, 6pm,
with Jazmarie LaTour & Tama Brisbane.
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!