—Poetry by Joshua C. Frank
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
THE GHOST GIRL
One sunny May, I ran to play,
When I was twelve years old,
Upon the hill. I miss her still—
A girl with curls of gold
In ribbon ties, big sky-blue eyes,
And waving, dark-red dress
Soon ran my way and asked to play—
How could I not say yes?
“I’m Beth,” she said. “My mother’s dead;
I’m hiding from her ghost.”
I thought, “A shame, her gruesome game,”
But soon I was engrossed.
We laughed and played along the grade,
Cavorted up the hill,
And soon rolled down, clothes turning brown,
Collapsed, and then lay still.
Then Beth and I stared toward the sky,
Then wrestled, then caressed,
And very soon that afternoon,
Our love began the rest.
We hoped our playing would one day
Give rise to married bliss.
I gazed into her pools of blue;
We leaned in for the kiss.
A woman’s ghost gave off the most
Horrendous, ghastly chill.
We stood upright in cold and fright;
Her ghost-hand reaped the kill.
I saw Beth die. Her ghost stood high
And quickly shed its shell.
Her ribbons fastened to the grass
As down her body fell.
Both, hand in hand, flew off the land.
Beth’s ghost was forced to go
Away from me like Annabel Lee,
But where, I’ll never know.
Then Beth up high bid me goodbye;
She waved as she looked back.
The two ghosts flew into the blue,
And everything went black.
I felt Mom shake me wide awake;
She’d found me on the hill.
“Are you all right?” She yelled in fright.
I sat up feeling ill.
I told her of my one-day love
And how she met her death.
My mother deemed it all a dream
And said there was no Beth.
So I believed I’d been deceived
And never met the lass,
Until I found, upon the ground,
Her ribbon coiled on grass.
The ghost who took her didn’t look
And left it unawares.
I picked the band up in my hand
And three blonde, curly hairs.
(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)
One sunny May, I ran to play,
When I was twelve years old,
Upon the hill. I miss her still—
A girl with curls of gold
In ribbon ties, big sky-blue eyes,
And waving, dark-red dress
Soon ran my way and asked to play—
How could I not say yes?
“I’m Beth,” she said. “My mother’s dead;
I’m hiding from her ghost.”
I thought, “A shame, her gruesome game,”
But soon I was engrossed.
We laughed and played along the grade,
Cavorted up the hill,
And soon rolled down, clothes turning brown,
Collapsed, and then lay still.
Then Beth and I stared toward the sky,
Then wrestled, then caressed,
And very soon that afternoon,
Our love began the rest.
We hoped our playing would one day
Give rise to married bliss.
I gazed into her pools of blue;
We leaned in for the kiss.
A woman’s ghost gave off the most
Horrendous, ghastly chill.
We stood upright in cold and fright;
Her ghost-hand reaped the kill.
I saw Beth die. Her ghost stood high
And quickly shed its shell.
Her ribbons fastened to the grass
As down her body fell.
Both, hand in hand, flew off the land.
Beth’s ghost was forced to go
Away from me like Annabel Lee,
But where, I’ll never know.
Then Beth up high bid me goodbye;
She waved as she looked back.
The two ghosts flew into the blue,
And everything went black.
I felt Mom shake me wide awake;
She’d found me on the hill.
“Are you all right?” She yelled in fright.
I sat up feeling ill.
I told her of my one-day love
And how she met her death.
My mother deemed it all a dream
And said there was no Beth.
So I believed I’d been deceived
And never met the lass,
Until I found, upon the ground,
Her ribbon coiled on grass.
The ghost who took her didn’t look
And left it unawares.
I picked the band up in my hand
And three blonde, curly hairs.
(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)
UNDER THE UMBRELLA
Inspired by “Le Parapluie” (“The Umbrella”)
—Song by Georges Brassens (1921-1981)
Rain fell in waves throughout the street;
A woman walked with no umbrella.
I offered mine; in voice real sweet,
She answered, “Thank you, sir. I’m Stella.”
She dried her young, angelic face
Under my umbrella space.
I stood with Stella, side by side.
We heard the rain sing A cappella,
A pretty choir chant outside,
Atop the roof of my umbrella.
Oh, for forty days together
To hear the concert of the weather!
Yet sadly, even in a storm,
Midnight strikes for Cinderella.
Rain stops, roads go, and that’s the norm.
Foolishly, I’d hoped that Stella
Would stay; instead, she went her way,
Shrinking as she walked away.
(First published in New English Review)
GOD’S FINGER ON WHITTAKER CHAMBERS
Based on Witness, autobiography of
Whittaker Chambers
My baby miracle so dear
Smeared oatmeal on her face;
I saw her perfect seashell ear,
Curving like a vase,
The pinkest little fiddlehead,
In spiral like a scroll.
How could blind chance, inert and dead,
Make such a pretty bowl?
My little Ellen is my heart
That crawls in human shape.
How could this masterpiece of art
Be just a baby ape,
Just random carbon molecules
Assembled here by chance?
Such bland beliefs are fit for fools,
I gathered at a glance.
This bubbled up against my will;
I shooed the thought away.
Such anti-Communistic swill
Could lead me far astray.
For if her ear was by design,
Then Who was the Designer?
Design must mean a Hand Divine;
No other hand is finer.
Through all that time, the thought remained
As little Ellen grew.
My faith in Godlessness grew strained;
God slowly changed my view
Through Ellen’s ear, which He designed,
And now the angels sing—
I left the Communists behind;
I follow Christ my King.
(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)
BALLAD OF THE VIDEO-GAME HERO
I rode in a mine cart, back home from the land
Of my favorite video game,
Through the pixelized prairie and vast seas of sand,
Over rivers of lava and flame.
The hero sat there in the rickety cart
Staring off into pixel-sky space,
Much older than on the game cartridge’s art,
With tears on his wide, wrinkled face.
“I’m leaving and never returning,” he said.
“Come listen and hear my sad story.
The princess and I, we hoped someday to wed,
Way back in the days of my glory.
“The dragon would kidnap the princess, then I
Would run through an obstacle course
To his minions’ dark castles in mountains up high
And take back their strongholds by force.
“My princess was in the last castle I’d raid;
I always found treasures to haul.
The Kingdom would welcome me with a parade
And a sumptuous banquet for all.
“But after some years, the dragon found ways
To undermine me and my quest.
He gave up the tactic of ‘pillage and raze’—
Bribed the people with treasure-filled chests!
“My princess then fell for the dragon’s top minion;
The Kingdom surrendered the war
And exiled me out of the dragon’s dominion—
They don’t want to be saved anymore!”
We came to my world, and we sealed up the gate
To the land of his video game.
My world is secured from his land’s tragic fate,
But I’m worried for us just the same.
For evil has bribed all the people here, too,
With shiny new gadgets galore.
No more do they care for what’s good and what’s true—
They don’t want to be saved anymore!
(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)
__________________
Today’s LittleNip:
GOD’S WAY AND MY WAY
—Joshua C. Frank
I thought I could cheat the system
And fight all the rules and resist ‘em,
But God has His way
At the end of the day;
Now I’ve too many problems to list ‘em!
(First published in The Society of Classical Poets)
________________
Our thanks to Josh Frank for his fine formal poetry today. About the poems, he writes: “‘The Ghost Girl’ and ‘God’s Finger on Whittaker Chambers’ are ballads (complete with ballad meter), whereas ‘Ballad of the Video-Game Hero’, while technically a ballad in the sense of being a narrative poem and having tetrameter alternative with trimeter, does not have true ballad meter. ‘God’s Way and My Way’ is a limerick.” Well done, Josh, and thanks again.
To hear George Brassens sing “La Parapluie”, go to https://www.bing.com/videos/riverview/relatedvideo?&q=le+parapluie%e2%80%9d+(%e2%80%9cthe+umbrella%e2%80%9d)++%e2%80%94song+by+georges+brassens&&mid=916D312DC988C828687C916D312DC988C828687C&&FORM=VRDGAR
__________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa
For future poetry happenings in
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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!
