An Explosion of Stars

 Melissa Lemay
—Poetry by Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

of stars

“The Wound is where the Light enters you.”—Rumi

I wait
as moon waits to touch sun.
She lingers
around, under heaven’s embrace.
Craters and
crevices punctuate
her landscape;
a remembrance of being
a crusade
to be conquered and marked
with a flag
by a man like all the others.
All of them
brandishing thoughts of ego,
countenances
solidified by pain.
She hides
in the black of the sky.
I see her
face in the explosion
of stars.

 

 

 

 

YOU LEFT

You left before I knew that you were leaving—
I did not get a chance to say goodbye—
you left me with this faint and constant grieving
reminded by the glimmer in his eyes.

And after death’s announcement you appeared—
a clearest dream of all I’ve ever seen—
in the way that I remembered and held dear—
seeing yourself off into the unseen.

You sit in clouds of rain inside my head.
You reach for me as shadows in the hall.
In memories of sweetest days we spent,
I understand you are not gone at all—

but a light that shone its time, then was released
to the sky, across the river, where light
goes. Into the depths of darkness light does reach—
not one knows all the places that it goes.

These tears I shed when spirit of you is nigh—
they’ll catch the light and glimmer by and by.

 

 

 

WILDFLOWERS

I’d pick wildflowers, but I’ll let them stay
In fields that grow, touched by the morning dew.
So many things we try to hold for truth
And flowers never were mine anyway.

Instead, I could catch rain within a glass,
A bottle or a copper flask—for you
To press against your passioned lips imbued
With sweet and long forays never alas

Unraveled underneath the sun’s cocoon.
In fields that grow, touched by the morning dew
I dreamt I found life there and we both knew
These earthly prisons were for the afternoon.

And water turned to wine my only gift—
In a bottle or a copper flask for you—
To drink and water the flowers wild, too,
In hopes the veil of dreams does soon be lifted.

I could pick the flowers wild, but I’ll let them stay.
The flowers never were mine anyway.

 

 

 

 

"COME FORTH!”

I am unknown to many, as we all know,
as we are, we come into the world unable
to comprehend extraordinary numbers of beings;
some may say they know us, they know only
what lives eternally within us in the end.

News travels of a man from Bethany,
a lover, a believer of the Most High, and
one whom the Most High believes for, loves.
I lie in death’s cold shroud, in a tomb,
I am unknown to many, as we all know.

Disturbed by illness, affliction, that
which man cast upon himself, as stone or fruit,
I foreshadow in you, and you through me,
a conquering of death’s steely grip, which,
as we are, we come into the world unable

to sway. Though unknown, I am your beloved,
My King, My Lord, My Master—yet who am I
that your heart should be grieved, that your
divine eyes should purge tears for me. Unable
to comprehend extraordinary numbers of beings

You created, my spirit bows in awe to your
supreme holiness, that you should choose to
rescue me. Abba! Father! I am not worthy
to grieve your heart. As all who wander,
some may say they know us, they know only

the surface of depravity we belie. Yet, you wept,
knowing the plague of living that must be
endured because of, for me. You call me,
“Come forth!” Grave-cloths be unwrapped, reveal
what lives eternally within us in the end.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.

—Og Mandino

____________________

Melissa Lemay first visited the Kitchen last Friday with a Golden Shovel; today she brings us some more forms: "You left" and "Wildflowers" are both Sonnets, and "Come forth!" is a Cascade. Melissa is a stay-at-home mother who, though she never graduated from college, says she has lived an interesting life, and her experiences shape her writing (some might call it an obsession). She writes about God, addiction, trauma, healing, being a mother, and many other things. Additionally, she enjoys spending time with family, drinking good coffee, and cats—petting them, not drinking them.

Melissa’s poem, “Ephemeral”, was chosen as Poetic Publication of the Year for 2023 at Spillwords Press, and now she has been nominated for Author of the Month at Spillwords, and she would like you to vote for her at https://spillwords.com/vote/. (You have to sign up for an account.)  Find Melissa (and other poets you might know) at Mom With A Blog (https://melissalemay.wordpress.com/). Welcome to the Kitchen, Melissa, and don’t be a stranger!

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Melissa Lemay

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
El Dorado County Poet Laureate
Stephen Meadows will read
in Georgetown today, 5:30pm.
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!

 

 

 

Sunday's Child

 The World Turns

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

 

 

PROVING
 —Joyce Odam

Silence.
Dust of silence.
Dust-light at the windows.
Time flowing backward into time.
Silence.

Light cannot enter windows now.
Grime of old light has built to a refusal.
Memories have no wish to be remembered.

Emptiness is heavy with an old weight.
A barrier now. Breath cannot breathe.
The door too far—the lock too rusty.

Folding chairs move in the light,
ever-so-slightly.
It’s not just their shadows,

glowing;
dusk is forming.
Soon the moons will enter—
every window with its soft light,
proving.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/4/16;
1/15/19; 6/1/21) 

 

 

 

 Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

COMPOSITION
—Joyce Odam

When I was ready for the poem
    it stretched out
        long before me, like a trail.

I followed as long as I could,
slower, and slower,
and slower,

while the poem—
wordy with excitement—
flew like a wavering butterfly before me

        —touched blossoms
      —here
—and there

how could I ever,
    how could I ever,
        how could I ever,

        measure the distance
    with my pace—
ever side-tracking—

into this barrier—
    and that thought—
        and revision, too soon.

 

 

 

 Mind Your Ps & Qs

       

THE DESPOILMENT
—Joyce Odam

To note a scribble on a page
and deplore that scribble
as a spoilage of intention,
or accidental blemish—

or some perfection unexpectedly
loved,
as holy words are loved—
words you read as wisdom,

and then to ponder them as willful,
as defacement,
followed by
a second-thought reaction :

should you erase them,
leave them be,
white them out, if ink—
or trust as something learned,

a thought-barrier of interpretation,
the otherness of it—apart from you—
or sense the bemusement that you
might be the one who put them there.

                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/10/18;
5/5/20; 4/16/24)

 

 

 

Amen 

AGAINST MY JOURNEY
—Robin Gale Odam
After Dreamtime Sisters by Colleen Wallace Nungari

I was soaring above my blue world—
my sisters came alongside, each with a
walking stick—they reasoned against my
journey, appealed to my trust in the dirt
below—how blue, they said—and how
filled with what you know—they wept
into my eyes with theirs—how blue,
they cried—how blue.

     
(prev. pub. in Brevities, June 2016)

________________

                              
WORDS
—Joyce Odam

Were I words instead of these sorrows,
what else could I bear
that is as heavy.

Speaking to myself while looking in
the mirror I am taken in through
the glass, once more caught.

Here is a truth, and here is a lie.
I have become two selves.
How similar they are.

Familiar darkness has returned
through struggling wings of light.
How can I still see them. 

 

 

 

 Happenstance

DAY-DREAMING CHILD AND 

NON-EXISTENT DOLL
—Joyce Odam

Is she the doll, this far-off, dreaming,
indoor child whose face is porcelain-white
in the sickly light from the window—

her red hair crushed
against a yielding pillow.
Is she ill, a model for the glass doll

that sits looking out the window,
rigid with listening to the sea
that sounds and sounds just out of view.

Does the child, too, listen—there is such
a disconnected dreaminess about her,
eyes without joy, no air of mischief,

her white dress catches window light
that tries to warm her, but her wild hair
draws all the light from the room.

She could be caught
in an ancient year of belonging,
left without energy enough to return.

The doll ignores the child—as does the child
the doll. If they are one and the same, how does
death happen to one and not the other?

                                                      
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/27/19) 

 

 

 

 One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

SUNDAY’S CHILD
—Robin Gale Odam

I wish I were born on a Wednesday—
to make valid my woe . . . to charge me
where I need to go.

But Sunday’s child is full of grace.


(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2020; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 8/8/23)

 

 

 

 A Nickel For Your Thoughts

I AM IN THE DOORWAY
—Joyce Odam

I am in the doorway, bracing against it. I am as
tall as it is and can easily touch both sides. Yet, I
am a child, and in reality, the doorway is huge.
I am in an earthquake. Behind me the dark bulk
of the house is shuddering, blurring and shifting
as if there were no stability left in the world. I can-
not move. I freeze to the doorway, which is white
and smooth. I fasten to the white smoothness,
close my eyes and wait. The doorway has regained
its true size. I am an adult now. A flash of some-
thing has brought me back and forth in time at the
first recognizable rumble : Earthquake! My
imagination?

______________________     

AS I GO
—Robin Gale Odam
After July Night by Frederick Childe Hassam

I will take this with me, this
broken night, as much as I can
gather as I go—

there are so many remnants,
feigning to be mine.

And yet that song I cannot hold—
it is anchored to the hour.

I will take my black bag and my
wrap, these petals from the table,

one last sip, a final glance,
and yet that song I cannot hold—
it was always yours.

                       
(prev. pub. in Song of the San Joaquin, Summer 2019)
                          
__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ART PIECE IN THE CITY
 —Robin Gale Odam

heavy and cast of iron,
sturdy on a concrete base and
reflected in the window panes of a
high-rise balanced on a full city block
of concrete, rebar, and tension rods 

 

___________________

 

 

 

 

Thanks to the Odam poets for today’s fine poetry and pix! When you’re only eight days away from being 100 years old, one could say you’ve obviously learned to persevere in the face of roadblocks—a response to our Seed of the Week, Roadblocks. And that’s our SnakePal Joyce Odam, Primo Persevering Poet who will be 100 on August 7. I guess we could ask her if she’s “seen it all”—I wonder what she would say…

Anyway, our new Seed of the Week is “Perseverance”. 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.

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Dreamtime Sisters
—Painting by Colleen Wallace Nungari

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

Roadblocks

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Sue Crisp, Sayani Mukherjee, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Visuals Courtesy of Joe Nolan
and Medusa

  

ROADBLOCKS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Summer is a red-barrel roadblock.
It’s a season I detest.

Tourists pull their campers through
our small town for the road
trip of their dreams.

Rodeos call for herds of trailers
bringing horses to compete.

Motorcycles vroom and sparkle,
taking all the parking spaces.
Sturgis Rally is their goal.

Road construction clogs up traffic.
Must be done before the winter freeze.

Miller moths, flies, and mosquitos
join the tourists for fine dining,
crawling shadows through the sunlight.

I can’t wait for change to autumn,
when the roadblocks go away.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan

TRIGGER HAPPY?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Diversion is my daily route—
distraction from the aches or pains—
my purpose when the muse enjoyed
with Wordle, Quordle—take your pick—
those word games of another kind
which yet have reason, be employed.

Road signage says you can’t get through,
so told for your convenience
to save the wasted journey time.
Though does it warn or more, direct,
for who decides what bars the path—
could they achieve the same with rhyme?

But when your high way, search for truth,
may be just, inconvenient
then highway men may block your course
because that path lays bare what lies
beneath the surface tension splayed,
full force of scandal at its source.  

Now trigger warnings claim to save
an upset, which unwary face;
each gallery, each galley proof
of poems, novel, baring fruit—
remember that low-hanging thought—
as starting pistols—fireproof.

The Song of Solomon too ripe,
while Shakespeare excised, risqué cut,
the Graeco-Roman sculptures draped
as were piano’s naked legs.
But when our literature is banned,
exemplar how our culture shaped.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo 

Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SURVIVOR
—Sue Crisp, Shingle Springs, CA

In this world of chaos,
what do I see?
tt seems there’s no longer
a place on this earth for me.
 
Raging destruction
of nature, once so pure,
leaving only particles
of what it could not endure.
 
The clouds drip their ice tears
on land parched by fire, wind and sun.
Soon no sanctuary will be left for anyone.
 
Brave bull, to see this course of nature through.
You’ve held steadfast.  It’s the best you can do.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

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

A large promenade over my head
The sound escapes as riverfalls
Bright blue steamy like the divine ocean
My mind blows over the Meadows
The chickens chirp as evening goes by
The ocean mast fall over its deduction of
masses
The prairies blow high over the altars
I skim and pine for the forests
The nature's handgrown misery till it saddles
over my
Ghost-naming diaries
The fisher queen stays at night
Between the bright barricades
The sylvan spree took a leap high
For it commingles with the memory. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SIZZLE UP THE SAUCE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Spread the sauce.
Turn up the heat—
Just enough to make it sizzle.

Make it sweet.
There’s nothing wrong
With food that’s tasty.
Make a special treat.

Invite some friends.
Celebrate how pleasure never ends
When recipes
Handed down
For generations
Make another round
At out tables
With women
Surely able
To whip things up
And spread them out
In front of smiling faces.

Everyone to their places!
The pièce de la résistance
Is being brought.
It’s quiet now
As people swallow
From mouths
Already full of water.

When we can’t afford
To eat junk-food
Anymore
From McD’s, B.K.’s,
Wendy’s and Taco Bell
We’ll eat at home.
We’ll rediscover
The pleasure
Of being together
Eating things that taste
So much better
Than junk-food-on-the-run.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BEGGING IN NEED
—Joe Nolan

We ran out
Of all we needed
And went begging
On the road.

When poverty
Needs generosity
You bear a
Heavy load.

Not everyone
Is kind and generous.
Many try to find fault
About your situation
So they won’t
Have to give at all
And feel virtuous
For refusing.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

OLD FRIENDS
—Joe Nolan

Old friends are like mercy-sex—
Devotion and the love of God
Becoming ever-stranger
With the passing years—
A twisted head,
A missing thread
Increasing volume
For their ears.

You do it for the love of man—
Keep coming back for more,
There’s joy in recognition
Adding to the lifetime stories
More tales not heard before
Filling in some missing pieces
In puzzles from days of yore.

How could it possibly be
That after all these years,
To each other
We’re still mysteries,
After all these years?

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Joe Nolan

FADING IN SUNLIGHT FOR LIBERTY
—Joe Nolan

That’s a play.
It’s a day.
Everything of brilliant color
Is fade-away,
In the lamp of sunlight,
Day after day,
When rays of sun
Attack our colors’ play.

How to fade
Without betrayal
Of every brilliant color
We hold dear?

Underneath rainbows,
We drew near,
Found ourselves
Together,
Marching hand-in-hand
For common cause.

Onward, always onward.
Ours, in common cause,
Held together.
Marching without pause,
We hold together.
Liberty, our cause, forever.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.

—George Orwell

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to our contributors, some of whom wrote to us about our Seed of the Week, Roadblocks. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. 

 

A note that SnakePal Nolcha Fox is recovering well from her recent surgery, and another SnakePal, Taylor Graham, celebrated her birthday yesterday. Cheers to both of them!

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
features 

A Mid-Summer's Open Mic
tonight at 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!

 

Is it safe out there yet?

 

In The Right Light

 —Poetry by Sam Barbee, Winston-Salem, NC
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

HOLDING TO ABSENCE
 
In the right light, anything
will disappear. Return to it
expecting wonderment,
but discover a random tongue
has severed intimacy—
a hard-fought trust
no longer persists.
 
Inanimate specter, grandeur
limped away.  For so long,
confident against all comers,
I strive to recapture a heartbeat,
the flutter we lived for,
sweeter by the breath.
Death too good for it.
 
Your ether lost in static,
now irreverent absence,
mist in a mirror.  I cling
to remaining fragrance,
even nondescript pleasures.
In the right light, learn to balance
the coming with the gone.

 

 

 

 
 
FLASH POINT
 
You spritz lavender on your pillow,
like a flavored ether.  I propose
a highball of dark-fired bourbon,
stouter than any apparition of love.
You request no elixir, no candle—
 
will answer queries in moonlight.
Point a pale finger, direct me
into poetry’s temple: granite steps,
Ionic columns spiked with twin torches.
Into a realm where it always rains.
 
Here our ghost ship moors.  Hulls
resolved to harbor, cargo of gold
and a chest of molten flaws. 
My questing stilled, velocity
squelched. Content
 
where you cremate vanities. 
Your palm offers a flaming pearl—
then clenches—reclaiming each trove
is afterglow. I must dream
what smolders there.

 

 

 

 

MEA CULPA
 
I want to dance a dance I was born to dance.
With you, my love.  No waltz, but Volta or galliard …
crawl over myself: up spine, pass privates, into curtsy.
Shimmy and shake, without lust. Pucker up
until the correct time for incantations and tonic.
Mondo, Rondo; mundane roundelay.
 
Born on the seventh day of the six month.
Seven come eleven, baby needs a new set of views.
Six destinies … one short of the pleiad.
Count-off eight days a week.  Escapade and sex tapes:
I resist being alone with remnants.  Portions:
Demigod, demitasse; seduce Demi More, bucket-
list-less.
 
Blossoms strewn, bled-out, still beautiful. 
Feng-shui blush, unique like white snow flake.
Ouija with a plastic snowman.  Mimic whichever
explains me best.  The bell serenades our nest. 
Across bitumen, under lumen; true north, due south. 
Erratum and revision; erection and myths.
 
Singing in the shower.  Comfortable furniture. 
Our uttered armistice sutured with anecdotes
as the tawny silver gleans remedies to queries
the fine china fails to answer.  Forestalled,
commonplace; next seconds lovely, but blunt.
Kowtow, cow-Tao; know-how, noels.
 
Anguish sweats against our cast-iron skewer.
Loaded shish-kabob spit, we broil scant silences.
Feign and swerve, shed the thin coat.
Cheap wine and tinsel clue us how to celebrate.
Scars toughen, scatter, obscured in gristle. 
Raindrop to flood; weep a dry tear born to weep. 

 

 

 

BY DESIGN
 
She was a blossoming architect.
Admired doors: in love with their options. 
Hung a poster displaying
Doors of America on our wall—
Manhattan to Miami Beach, Boston to Frisco.
All painted different colors.

She was sweet to me through winter.
A stiff March, with late frost . . .
branches and early jonquils struck down.
She plucked icy stalks anyway—
with devotion's throb—slid one-after-
another into a cut-rate vase.

Blonde braids, crystal blue eyes.
Could have finished the last wine, or borrowed
money.
Our last morning, she folded her soft gowns.
Her blunt kiss a surviving blossom to inhale.
After a tidy lunch, out our red door
she went, bearing her colorless bouquets.

 

 

 

 

 
NIGHT WATCH
 
Five planets in view tonight.  My universe
is insomnia's cradle where I mediate indecision
until the ceiling turns away.  Tonight, I doze
naked.  My vigil of dreams strips a horizon
of my lover's vistas, breasts, pelvis, eyes.
 
Salacious charade of light torments, a Vu
the only proof of hope, the key to align
us with our parodies that never reveal twilight. 
Your apparition translates all hints of boredom,
yearns for Venus and Mars to collide. 
 
Dawn will still host Jupiter and Saturn, but
sun gods will flick them from mighty shoulders
along with all others who revised heavens just for us.
I look forward to morning's shave and shower
to cleanse resilience of earthly immortals.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Perhaps when distant people on other planets pick up some wavelength of ours all they hear is a continuous scream.  

—Iris Murdoch

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that there will be

a reading from VOICES 2024 

in Camino today, 2pm. 

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!

 

 

Thinking Female

 —Poetry by Lynn White, 

Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales

—Illustrations Courtesy of Public Domain 

Today’s poems are on the theme of “Thinking Female”:


TO BE A WITCH IN SCOTLAND

Scotland was not the place to be a witch,
it really wasn’t.
There were more than four thousand witch trials
in Scotland
putting Salem to shame,
the Witch-Finders boasted.

One would suppose that
wise women did not become witches,
but it seems,
many did
and paid a hot and heavy price.

So not many would be dancing
to celebrate Hogmanay
Even in spirit
few would rise
for the occasion,
not even the white witches.

But there will always be some,
some women
brave enough
to celebrate.



(First published in Bonnie Wee Zine, Coin-
Operated Press, September 2023)

 

 

 

 

GHOULS

Is it ghoulish
to think
that life
is more
than a small collection of cells
in a uterus.

Is it ghoulish
to think
that
the life of the mother
and the spillage
of her blood
count for less
than the small collection of cells
in her uterus
that are unable to bleed.

Is it ghoulish
to think
that infant life
needs love
as it grows
and support networks
and things that cost
society
dear
through life
if it does not supply them.

Is it ghoulish
to ask
how
the highest court
in the land
was taken over
by ghouls.


(First published in New Verse News, 5/11/22)

 

 

 

 

BIRTH OR DEATH


Death begins at birth
for pro-lifers.
The birth day
is
when
interest
is lost
lost
in those post-foetal
post-natal
moments
which move us
crying
into hours
smiling
into days
crawling
into months
running
into years
walking
into decades
slowing
toward
our death day.
They’ve long
lost interest
these pro-lifers.
They say that life
must be lived
according to
the law of God
as it is written
and dispatched
to them
in nightmares
and dreams.
Only break it
and
they’re back
with interest
and concern
those pro-deathers.


(First published in New Verse News, May 2019)

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER BREAKFAST


Smoking was forbidden
especially at the breakfast table.
She knew it was against all the house rules,
knew it was time for her to tidy up the debris
on the table.

Her parents taught her well.

She listened.
She heard them.
She thinks of them now
as she sits and smokes
after breakfast.


(First published in Gorko Gazette, 10/1/22)

 

 

 

 

KEEPING UP APPEARANCES


I’ve always been somewhat vain
always creamed and combed,
groomed and preened
and wanted to look my best,
not a hair out of place.

Is such vanity sinful?
Maybe it is.

But vanity was not my crime.
My crime was committed
on the day the hair
escaped.
Just one hair
out
of place.

But they saw it.

That was the crime
I died for.



(First published in Live Wire, Spring 2024)

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The age of a woman doesn’t mean a thing. The best tunes are played on the oldest fiddles.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 Medusa’s Beauty Routine

A reminder that
Sac. Poetry Center’s
47-year celebration 

scheduled for today
has been postponed;
MoSt’s Poetry Book Club
meets today in Modesto, 10am;
Beast Crawl happens today in
Oakland starting at 3:30pm.
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!

 

 

Traveling Light

 Bird's Nest

—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Stephen Kingsnorth, Nolcha Fox,
Melissa Lemay, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan

 

 

WILD OUTSIDE THE HOUSE

My dog steps out the door as if
it’s terra incognita.

How can my laces be thick
with stick-tights when I just mowed here?

My dog, too—up to his ears,
and we’re not walking thru high weeds.

Look! a tiny bird’s nest’s fallen
from this oak—what kind of bird?

My dog’s intently sniffing
critter scat—do we have bobcat?

Here’s a black leather glove on the ground—
who was here to lose it?

After 16 years
home can still be terra incognita. 

 

 

 

 

PRACTICALITIES

I travel light, bring no field guide
to lichens on this trail. I’ll be listening
for gush of snowmelt in the creek,
the drumming drill of beak on wood—
pileated woodpecker?—and
raven’s call echoing off lava cliffs,
all part of an upcountry symphony.
Wildflowers in the meadow
outdo a pointillist’s daydreams.
And these boulders, I couldn’t begin
to name every species of lichen,
but marvel at their murals in grays,
vibrant orange and yellows,
palest pinks and greens.
I can check the field guides later. 

 

 

 

 

OLD RAILROAD TRACK

A sudden blinding
headlight on the track ahead,
bursting thru the dark
canopies of oak woodland.
It’s just July’s rising sun. 

 

 

 

 

THE DOE FAMILY STOLE YOUR TOMATOES?

Why did they wait so long?
Mama Doe descended on my just-beginning-
to-show-promise garden before the first squash
flowers, before the tomato plants’ tiny yellow stars.
A nibble of green leaves here, a nabble there,
small nubbles everywhere until nothing was left
but depressions like cloven hoofprints in soil.
There were no tomatoes
for Mama Doe & her twins to steal. Still,
they stuck around, summer thru fall and winter,
waiting for me to garden again in spring.
Their patience is laudable.
But no more tomatoes, no garden. 

 

 

 

 

OUT OF SIGHT AND HEARING

He’s walking straight ahead, no glance
to either side of blacktop trail,
his earbuds playing what he’ll hear
as ravens on their black wings sail.

His earbuds playing what he’ll hear
instead of birdsong on a breeze,
he doesn’t see what’s out of sight
beyond those thickets under trees.

He doesn’t see what’s out of sight.
My dog’s alert as we pass by
and looking back, and sniffing air
for dangers lurking under sky. 

 

 

 

 

ODD ONE
in the pioneer cemetery

I can’t make out dates
or her name—only letters
GENIA. Lichen
has eaten into marble
headstone. Who was she
and why is her grave facing
the opposite way
from all the other deceased?
Why does she rest here
on the backside of this great
incense cedar? I’d
like to ask her. Our guide tells
the history of this
place. Forest absorbs human
voices. Her untold
story dissolves in silence.
I’ll listen to wind in trees.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TURKEY-LAD SONG
—Taylor Graham

Wow!
turklings
can soar now
as mom-hen sings
her clear-the-fence song,
so glad her son can fly
at last, he’s feeling so strong
he could sail far above blue sky.

____________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham, who, as you can see from her fine poems and photos, braves the heat to be outside, regardless. Forms she has used today include a Just 15s (“Wild Outside the House”); a Waka (“Old Railroad Track”); an Eight-ette (“Turkey-Lad Song”); a Three Moon Pattern (“Out of Sight and Hearing”); a Word-Can Poem (“Practicalities”); and a Choka (“Odd One”). The Eight-ette was one of our Triple-F Challenges last week, and her Mama Doe poem is a response to our recent Seed of the Week, “Mama Doe and her two fawns stole my tomatoes”.

In El Dorado County poetry this week: on Sunday, Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills features readings in Camino from the Voices 2024 anthology, 2pm; and on Wednesday, EDC Poet Laureate Stephen Meadows will read in Georgetown as part of  the EDC Poet Laureate Trail series. El Dorado County also has a regular schedule of workshops, weekly and otherwise; go to Medusa’s link, UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) and scroll down to the section on workshops. Or, for more news about El Dorado County poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. (Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!) And of course you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about future poetry events in the NorCal area.

 

Two last-minute notices from Sacramento Poetry Center: Their 47-year celebration which was scheduled for this Saturday has been postponed to a date yet-to-be determined; and the submissions deadline for their visual poetry exhibit in their gallery has been re-scheduled again, this time to August 15. 

And now it’s time for…  


FORM FIDDLERS’ FRIDAY! 

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)


Check out our recently-refurbed page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand and other ways of poetry. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

 

Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo:

Tending the Garden by Stevan Dohanos, 1951

 

Last week’s photo brought Ekphrastic poems from Stephen Kingsnorth and Nolcha Fox. (And thanks to Stephen for tracking down the title and painter of this painting.)
 

TENDING THE GARDEN

—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth Wrexham, Wales

Another clapper board on show—
who ate the lettuce under flow,
for pristine rows, a dare to slugs,
or any other would-be bugs?
This turn up of relaxing hose—
I mean his trousers in this pose—
both pipe and braces (no belt) aid,
but can he tamp tobacco sprayed?
A veggie plot—few steps from door,
an evening tend—best time for pour—
is satisfactory I think;
contentment, Ma, away from sink.
I wonder, net curtain ajar—
like ‘quarterlight’, old English car—
was means to spy, when at her chores,
on garden life, raise wholesome scores.
Dohanos is the artist here—
Saturday Evening Post his sphere;
he designed stamps, and covered mags,
but did this man, Esquire, lack tags?

* * *

WHAT IT TAKES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

It takes mistakes
and lucky breaks
and grit, devotion
to another soul
to build a house
of sweat and dreams,
and grow the seeds
of love.

* * *

Here is a Golden Shovel from Newcomer Melissa Lemay. Melissa uses a lot of forms, and we’ll hear more from her next Wednesday, July 31. Welcome to the Kitchen, Melissa—do NOT be a stranger! 

 

Melissa informs me that she has been nominated for author of the month at Spillwords, and she would like you to vote for her. You have to sign up for an account to vote at https://spillwords.com/vote/. Here is Melissa's Golden Shovel:

 

 

 

a wave
—Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA

"Wear gratitude like a cloak and it will feed every corner
of your life.” —Rumi

This morning, the world thought that it would wear
white, the stairs were salted, grass glistening. Gratitude
swept over me as a wave, like
a
cloak
of soft hail or a snowfield. My eyes cracked and
out of the corners of them, it
appeared that a bird flew by. But it had no will
to be concrete as I turned. Its songs will feed
the sky and every
darkest corner,
as it sings not for want or because of pride: it is of
angels, its message that it sends—open your
eyes, and be surrounded by life.

* * *

 

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) sent us a Seadna in response to our current Tuesday's Seed of the Week, Roadblocks:

 

 

 

NOT THERE YET
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

aging, they test me for cancer
supposing ready and ripe
dementia gets a top listing
I told them I’m not that type

learned my ABC’s with grammar
no D-mentia’s found in there
my mirror does its own misting
while I just breathe in the air
 

* * *

 

Carl sent this poem with quatrains alternating three and four feet. Neither of us can remember if this is a legit form, or what the name of such a form would be:

 

 

 

ONE LAST TIME
—Caschwa

we don’t need no president
and surely not a king
just let chaos rule us all
not worry ‘bout a thing

there’s crazies on the ballot
from top to the bottom
Napoleon Bonaparte
singing Early Autumn

miracle in Wisconsin
teenagers out with guns
can’t believe it wasn’t staged
like intentional puns

candidates like sausages
both are getting older
place your bet for faster horse
not the smell that’s bolder

I’ll place my bet in secret
really not tell a soul
except social media
because that is the goal

* * *

Carl has also sent us a Haiku chain:

 

 

 

LEAN ON ME
—Caschwa

tall, unlit candle
upright, potent, and steady
here, I will hold you

most proudly standing
on top of the birthday cake
till flames do us part

before you become
mere residue, table scraps,
a child will appear

take a deep breath and
proudly blow out all the flames
we’ll see you again

* * *

Joe Nolan sent us an Ode to one of his grand-nieces:

 

 

 

ODE TO MAEVE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

A child like Maeve
Makes your heart gush with love
Like a fountain, run-amok,

Willing to work like a devil
To make sure she has enough.

If there are any
Children more wonderful,
We’ve never seen at all—
God has kept all those in Heaven
He can’t bear to let them go.

* * *

And here is an Ars Poetica from Stephen-of-Wales:

 

 

 

READING BETWEEN THE LINES
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Ghost writers, whiter shade of pale,
but which is shade, witch poltergeist
as long-dead poets read again,
in relived lines, past death reversed.

Those deadlines met before obits,
in time re-hearsed, All Hallows Eve,
their moving finger, writ moved on,
prophetic call, the poet’s wall.

Fake news, or license, take your pick,
like Xanadu, by drug induced;
so post replies of sympathy,
make me a cheat in poetry.

What should I do, hoax history,
my story read, testimony,
when it is observation, sole,
revealing truth, though whole excised?

So should I cease those stanza works
assumed biography in genre,
reel story nearly as if real,
as would a patron, could for cash.

It is a novel way to write,
to weigh each word, exactitude;
a bio, graphic, not allowed,
though permit issued, verse aloud?

Because dilemma recognised
should I set warnings, trigger so?
And where would Dewey have me be—
some friction in veracity?

___________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

___________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES! 

 

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Try:

•••Dectina Refrain: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dectina-refrain

•••AND/OR howzabout a wee Dixdeux (dee-duh):

•••Dixdeux: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dixdeux

•••AND/OR join Melissa Lemay in a Golden Shovel—remember those?

•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Roadblocks”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••Choka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/choka
•••Dectina Refrain: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dectina-refrain
•••Dixdeux: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/dixdeux
•••Eight-ette: https://poetscollective.org/poetryforms/eight-ette
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form
•••Haiku: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html

•••Just 15s (devised by Sarah Harding): poem or stanza of 15 syllables

•••Ode: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ode
•••Three Moon Pattern (devised by Joyce Odam): Syllabic, three quatrains, 8-syllable lines; x a BR a  |  BR  c  DR  c  |  DR  e  x  e  | DR  e  x  e. Content based on the Chinese Quatrain, as follows:
    ▪    Opening line introduces an idea.
    ▪    Second line extends the idea
    ▪    Third line introduces a new idea
    ▪    Fourth line brings first three lines together
•••Waka: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/waka
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

  Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Public Domain Photo

 

For info about
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!