—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa
STORY TIME
The father, he sits on the couch with a book,
A child in each arm, and one more on his knees;
The mother, the same. All the other ones look
Content on the floor; he recites like a breeze.
He changes his voice for each character’s lines,
Whether child or lion or grandma or elf,
And changes his face as an actor designs
When quotation marks signal to be a new self.
As he acts, all the listeners picture the scenes
While the words are transporting them all many places.
The images show on their own mental screens:
The farmhouse, the castle, the characters’ faces.
These books are their movies, their history tome,
Their lessons in civics, religion, and right,
And bonding together with family at home.
Light fades while they’re listening, night after night.
After ten thousand nights touring narrative trails,
The decades have vanished, the children are grown,
And all look back fondly on a thousand great tales;
They continue the story-time nights with their own.
(prev. pub. in New English Review)
The father, he sits on the couch with a book,
A child in each arm, and one more on his knees;
The mother, the same. All the other ones look
Content on the floor; he recites like a breeze.
He changes his voice for each character’s lines,
Whether child or lion or grandma or elf,
And changes his face as an actor designs
When quotation marks signal to be a new self.
As he acts, all the listeners picture the scenes
While the words are transporting them all many places.
The images show on their own mental screens:
The farmhouse, the castle, the characters’ faces.
These books are their movies, their history tome,
Their lessons in civics, religion, and right,
And bonding together with family at home.
Light fades while they’re listening, night after night.
After ten thousand nights touring narrative trails,
The decades have vanished, the children are grown,
And all look back fondly on a thousand great tales;
They continue the story-time nights with their own.
(prev. pub. in New English Review)
THREE SMALL TABS
Upon the men’s room wall at church,
A flyer’s there for men who search
For healing after an abortion
Served to them, their awful portion.
I glanced and saw in that display
That three small tabs were ripped away.
Three grieving fathers, pain untold
For children they will never hold,
Yet, in a world gone feministic,
Their grief is deemed misogynistic:
Gaslit, yelled at, vilified
For mourning when their children died.
(prev. pub. in The Society of Classical Poets)
SHIPWRECKED ON A DREAM ISLAND
Inspired by Nintendo’s "The Legend of Zelda: Link’s Awakening"
I learned the magic island was a dream;
Returning home required that I wake
The far-off dreamer by a quest extreme
And end the island in an instant quake.
I searched for weapons, magic things, and keys
To castles underground where monsters stayed.
I battled giants, djinn, and ghosts for these
To end the detailed dream the sleeper made.
I didn’t think I’d love a local girl,
And yet, I did. She sang with siren’s voice.
My quest complete, her hug and kiss would hurl
Me into such an agonizing choice!
She looked and felt and smelt and sounded real
As women in the waking world I know,
But when the sleeper woke, the dream would steal
To where a snuffed-out candle’s flame would go.
That girl, just like the island, was no more
Than dancing light upon a sleeping eye.
No mind behind the face I’d fallen for,
And yet it pained me so to say goodbye!
I soon awakened on my floating boat,
A plank from ships the storm had torn apart.
The memory of the girl now seems remote,
But still her siren song is in my heart.
(prev. pub. in The Society of Classical Poets)
THE LITTLE BOY WHO DISOBEYED
A true story from the Catholic children’s book, Spiritual Crumbs for Hungry Little Souls by Mary E. Richardson
My mother said, “Don’t look, don’t talk,
Don’t stop, just hurry as you walk.”
She sent me to the grocer’s store—
I never saw her anymore.
Right at the corner of the street,
A circus train came—what a treat!
Like King David, I stopped to look—
Some men jumped out, and me, they took.
They grabbed and gagged, they bound my hands,
They carted me to distant lands
To lift and stoop and toil away
For eighteen hours every day.
At twenty, finally, I escaped,
Returning home, all bruised and scraped,
To tell my mother, long delayed:
“I never should have disobeyed.”
But to the door, a lady came;
To her I told my mother’s name.
“I hate to bring bad news,” she said.
“Your mother dear is long since dead.”
I ran so fast, on feet to fly,
While praying it was all a lie,
But in the churchyard where I’d flown,
I saw my mother’s name in stone.
So please, oh please, go warn some others:
“Obey your fathers and your mothers!”
Or someday they might meet my fate—
God punished me; it’s now too late.
(prev. pub. in The Society of Classical Poets)
STORY’S END (a Sonnet Corona)
The family’s together at Babbling Brook,
The couple’s found love, and the villain’s defeated.
In their village, my presence no longer is needed
Because I’ve just come to the end of the book.
Every day after work, I spent hours with the Browns
Wandering by creeks and old sheds and in castles,
Visiting families with children in passels,
Going to jousts, county fairs, other towns,
Outwitting the villain, and saving the folk,
But I’ve reached the last page, and the hero’s won glory.
No way could I stay; there will be no more story—
The scene’s disappearing as though it were smoke!
It’s text on a page, nothing actual there—
I leave Babbling Brook and return to my chair.
I leave Babbling Brook and return to my chair,
Where the tables are cluttered and no one is present.
No friends can be found, all my neighbors unpleasant,
And the women are busy not “washing their hair.”
The twilight is fading, the hills have gone black,
I turn on the lights, and I close every curtain;
My roommate is Loneliness, that much is certain.
I remember the story and long to go back
To farms with big families, a happier age
Of castles and white knights on quests and court jesters.
I’m losing my battle as Loneliness pesters!
My shield is my book, where I read the first page
To return to the world that the author forsook,
Where the family’s together at Babbling Brook
(prev. pub. in New English Review)
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
There’s no friend as loyal as a book.
—Ernest Hemingway
_______________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Joshua Frank for today’s fine poetry!
NorCal poets will be saddened to learn that Sandra MacPherson passed away this week. For more info, go to Patrick Grizzell's post at https://www.facebook.com/patrick.grizzell/.
A reminder that Danny Romero
will be reading on ZOOM and
in person as Sac. City College
today at 3pm.
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!
will be reading on ZOOM and
in person as Sac. City College
today at 3pm.
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!
