—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain
LIGHT THICKENS
The trees, dark sentinels,
along the field’s edge.
Twilight thickens into night;
the owl flies silently
hunting among black thickets.
Bats flitter above the graves
in the failing light.
In the city’s narrow alleys,
darkness is flooding in,
forcing its way into open doors.
In smoke-filled bars, glimpses
of serious drinking,
of rowdy brawls,
in gloomy, half-lit saloons.
At sea the first watch settles.
For a moment the half-moon
light plays on fringed foam,
before Night resumes her reign.
The waves a vast, breathing stretch
of unrelieved black again.
The Southern night is sensuous
the darkness velvet, soft.
Fireflies, tiny sparks,
pinpricks of amber light
weave patterns of liquid gold.
Nyx, whom even Zeus fears,
grasps her dark sceptre.
The trees, dark sentinels,
along the field’s edge.
Twilight thickens into night;
the owl flies silently
hunting among black thickets.
Bats flitter above the graves
in the failing light.
In the city’s narrow alleys,
darkness is flooding in,
forcing its way into open doors.
In smoke-filled bars, glimpses
of serious drinking,
of rowdy brawls,
in gloomy, half-lit saloons.
At sea the first watch settles.
For a moment the half-moon
light plays on fringed foam,
before Night resumes her reign.
The waves a vast, breathing stretch
of unrelieved black again.
The Southern night is sensuous
the darkness velvet, soft.
Fireflies, tiny sparks,
pinpricks of amber light
weave patterns of liquid gold.
Nyx, whom even Zeus fears,
grasps her dark sceptre.
CHANGING LIGHT
In Eden it was eternal Summer,
sunlit Garden of perfection.
Shady trees never shed their leaves,
flowers bloomed, fountains played,
crystal water flowed for ever.
Yet, light perfection may be no solution
just another version of light pollution.
Varying light throughout
the hours, throughout the days,
throughout the seasons,
alters a place, a scene, a space,
into a constantly changing story.
The sun at midday with the fiercest ray
beating down on the bluest ocean
may suggest iced coffee, a hammock,
the shade of a striped umbrella.
The scene by night presents a different sight
the sea with a moonlit path resting
on the calm waters of the ocean,
total stillness, no movement no motion.
Fine rain, nothing more than drizzle.
Towering trees, a gentle breeze,
a grey sky, through a puzzle of branches
perfect backdrop to solitude.
A dramatic stillness, a darkening sky,
a thunder crash, a lightning flash,
there is a power, an energy set free,
which comes from an ancient source.
That translucent light of early autumn
sets fire to the tips of petals,
picks out the clouds of tiny insects
follows the path of departing swallows.
The misty haze of autumn days
hangs over the distant hills,
over the streams and rills,
meandering down misty valleys.
The winter light has a special power,
full of witchery and mystery.
Snowy skies have a strange metallic glow—
a candle shining through lead.
On the shortest day of the year,
darkness is a constant fear,
We not only long for light
but in all its various tones and hues
which change and offer countless views.
In Eden it was eternal Summer,
sunlit Garden of perfection.
Shady trees never shed their leaves,
flowers bloomed, fountains played,
crystal water flowed for ever.
Yet, light perfection may be no solution
just another version of light pollution.
Varying light throughout
the hours, throughout the days,
throughout the seasons,
alters a place, a scene, a space,
into a constantly changing story.
The sun at midday with the fiercest ray
beating down on the bluest ocean
may suggest iced coffee, a hammock,
the shade of a striped umbrella.
The scene by night presents a different sight
the sea with a moonlit path resting
on the calm waters of the ocean,
total stillness, no movement no motion.
Fine rain, nothing more than drizzle.
Towering trees, a gentle breeze,
a grey sky, through a puzzle of branches
perfect backdrop to solitude.
A dramatic stillness, a darkening sky,
a thunder crash, a lightning flash,
there is a power, an energy set free,
which comes from an ancient source.
That translucent light of early autumn
sets fire to the tips of petals,
picks out the clouds of tiny insects
follows the path of departing swallows.
The misty haze of autumn days
hangs over the distant hills,
over the streams and rills,
meandering down misty valleys.
The winter light has a special power,
full of witchery and mystery.
Snowy skies have a strange metallic glow—
a candle shining through lead.
On the shortest day of the year,
darkness is a constant fear,
We not only long for light
but in all its various tones and hues
which change and offer countless views.
THREE PATHS
The forest is closing in
threatening, menacing.
Leaves whisper, brushing,
touching his arms, his face.
Which is the path to escape,
freedom, space?
He tries the first—grassy
spring-like, enticing,
new green life.
Birch branches sway
in a southern wind.
Voices on either side
suddenly shrieking.
His mother from
sharp brambles—angry
critical, implacable.
Lying in bed,
distant arguing,
sound of a leather belt
lashing, swishing, hurting.
The second path,
meandering, unclear,
impossible to follow.
The summer has died,
autumn leaves flaming
fallen, trodden, rotten.
Running, running,
tired, exhausted.
The end in sight
but always fading.
‘You’re not exactly
the person we’re
looking for.’
Casual friendships,
hiding in night shadows.
A lone bird flies up
at his feet.
The third path beckons.
Sharp flints cut his feet.
Looking up through
bare, winter branches,
the sky is darkening,
the path ahead steepening.
The finish is nearer but
the effort greater.
Walking, challenging,
running, impossible.
He sits down to rest.
The snow falls quietly,
the way ahead hidden,
the white cover comforting.
Perhaps at the end,
dreaming is best?
____________________
The forest is closing in
threatening, menacing.
Leaves whisper, brushing,
touching his arms, his face.
Which is the path to escape,
freedom, space?
He tries the first—grassy
spring-like, enticing,
new green life.
Birch branches sway
in a southern wind.
Voices on either side
suddenly shrieking.
His mother from
sharp brambles—angry
critical, implacable.
Lying in bed,
distant arguing,
sound of a leather belt
lashing, swishing, hurting.
The second path,
meandering, unclear,
impossible to follow.
The summer has died,
autumn leaves flaming
fallen, trodden, rotten.
Running, running,
tired, exhausted.
The end in sight
but always fading.
‘You’re not exactly
the person we’re
looking for.’
Casual friendships,
hiding in night shadows.
A lone bird flies up
at his feet.
The third path beckons.
Sharp flints cut his feet.
Looking up through
bare, winter branches,
the sky is darkening,
the path ahead steepening.
The finish is nearer but
the effort greater.
Walking, challenging,
running, impossible.
He sits down to rest.
The snow falls quietly,
the way ahead hidden,
the white cover comforting.
Perhaps at the end,
dreaming is best?
____________________
Today's LittleNip:
Change, like sunshine, can be a friend or a foe, a blessing or a curse, a dawn or a dusk.
—William Arthur Ward
____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Sarah Das Gupta for today’s fine poetry!
“The winter light has a special power,
full of witchery and mystery.”
full of witchery and mystery.”
A reminder that
Josh Fernandez will hold
his first writing workshop
today, 12pm, 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!
Josh Fernandez will hold
his first writing workshop
today, 12pm, 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!
