* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Caschwa
Stephen Kingsnorth, Sayani Mukherjee,
Devyanshi Neupane, and Joe Nolan
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan and Medusa
THE MYTH OF BELONGING
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
I take a mental snapshot
of this building I call home.
We thought it was the place
that we could die for.
And die in. We built it
into everything we craved.
But now we hear the call
of somewhere else that we
could float to in a shell,
to reach the shore
of beauty and belonging.
This shell is sad reminder
that the bubble of my hopes
is just a fragile, weightless myth
recorded in a snapshot
of a building I call home.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
I take a mental snapshot
of this building I call home.
We thought it was the place
that we could die for.
And die in. We built it
into everything we craved.
But now we hear the call
of somewhere else that we
could float to in a shell,
to reach the shore
of beauty and belonging.
This shell is sad reminder
that the bubble of my hopes
is just a fragile, weightless myth
recorded in a snapshot
of a building I call home.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
SNAP SHOTS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
Excitement, tantrums, what a trick,
emotions well as bored complains,
so bridge that gap in using pack,
a game of snap, played back truck seat.
What joker thought that route would pay?
It was the first, with cards we laid,
inherent noise, full volume voiced,
the hand thump of a five-year-old—
that… hesitate—to let him win,
as losing process learned so slow.
A rummy thing to play cards right,
teach patience, mask sight reading face;
if trump declared this round as spades
be ready for your options, grave.
That baize of youth seems far away.
It all seems black and white back then,
when shot summed moment in the tale,
poor focussed, fuzzy, funny too,
remembrance, not for others’ view,
unless invested—roots which grew.
In rusty tins, old shoebox lids
they pile in heap, some scrapbook glued,
though one may catch the eye or throat,
memento mori, patterned coat,
recall old quote or what she wrote.
Green baize in now laid astroturf—
low maintenance the sexton said.
My days of playing snap long gone—
you know the game they play these days—
but she had trained us, patience’ ways.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
IMPENDING DOOM
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
sharing a day with relatives in
Long Beach, California, I, a
young male child, and my cousin,
a young female adult sat together
in one roller coaster car on the
famous wooden Pike
it started with some mild ups and
downs and then rather suddenly
we found ourselves at the topmost
part of the ride, looking down and
down some more at the track ahead
which was due to make a chillingly
sharp turn soon, likely losing our car
as it would sail straight ahead, off the
tracks, down into the ocean
there were some vibrations and jolts
and then the car scooted down the
track, gaining speed, racing for that
sharp turn….
as it engaged the turn, we were both
taught a quick lesson in centrifugal
force as a real-life personal experience,
much deeper than any academic
discussion could deliver
the car stayed on the track, we made
our turn, all was well, whooo! That
brief moment, looking down the track
and entertaining all kinds of doubts,
has found a niche in my memory stores
forever after
—Public Domain Photo
Courtesy of Joe Nolan
BEFORE SUNRISE
—Caschwa
(Inspired by former Seed of the Week:
Before Sunrise)
how high the Moon
how low the pants
citation soon
that is the dance
it’s 2 a.m.
the bar has closed
could not take stock
I must have dozed
called a taxi
was not my type
hair way too waxy
all talk, all hype
reached in pocket
there was no cash
real cheap locket
fake eye lash
a contract is
a package deal
each other’s biz
stays under seal
is there a way
to get me home
and then I’ll pay
you with a gnome?
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
HEART
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India
The hefty dreams of suburban cities
The burning sky, the nightlife of Naples
Asks me to write a sonorous letter
To the crescent moon high above the park
A dandelion for her wish to fold the dreams
I surmise in sending letters to not feel the
danger
Brown skin city high scrapers school me
A nail pictured shopkeeper in the most
urgent way
The honey choir of dazzling smoke
The lost feathers of the peace of dove
A symbol of fraternity among the sleeves
As if the night-bloomed daisies know the
human heart.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
MY DOLL
—Devyanshi Neupane, Age 5, Melbourne, Australia
I have a doll
I play with it
When I am at
Home.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
USED CLOTHING AD
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
Cloth made to last long time,
But seams are worn and frayed.
Maybe could last another season
If you’re careful how you play.
Beware of things
That poke and hang--
Sharp points atop
Cyclone fences
And, of course,
Berry bushes
Which can’t be
Broached at all.
Actually,
The fabric has worn thin
And won’t endure
Another tragic winter
Unless you’re sure
Not to slip and fall
On ice
Or bend over at all
Since you could have
An accident
That might undo
All your modest efforts.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
LOADING SHIPS TO CAST AWAY
—Joe Nolan
How soon to throw away
Old things that decay?
Is meat
Good a week,
If it is
Refrigerated?
How about dates
That are late?
Can you stand them up
After a certain hour
And walk away?
How short is
Too short?
When you get the follow-up call,
What will you have to say
About not wasting time?
Where do we stand
In our power
To load our ships
And cast away
Stowaways and
Termites from
The shore?
Scrape our hulls
From barnacles,
Set our sails
For miracles
Of life out on
The open seas,
At the mercy
Of sun and wind,
No sins confessed,
Since we are not sorry.
We’ll commit them all
Again and again,
In every port
We enter,
Since we are sailors
Grown hard upon the water.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
RANSOMING THE FUTURE
—Joe Nolan
Harboring all the old
As a ransom
Against the present
And future,
Saying we cannot
Move on from here
Until all these old things,
We jointly clear,
But you say you can’t remember.
How can we hope
To draw a map
Through our garbage dump
When how these things
Came to be here
In this place that has no name
Cannot be described,
Since you say you can’t remember.
If we haven’t a clue
What are we to do?
There’s no name tags
On any of this junk
That might tell us who
Should be the one
To shovel and hoe
To dig a hole
To push all of it in,
Whatever came from him.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
PLANTS FACING STAR-SHINE
—Joe Nolan
The universe
Envelops olive trees
Planted in fine sand.
Also, date trees,
But not as well.
Hoary things
Grow and make demands
For water and dung,
Tasty to their roots,
Through which
Music is sung
That we can’t hear.
Stars reach down
From their cosmic heavens
To beat a sound
Into earth
That nourishes
And sustains.
It isn’t hard
For a star
To reach out
To Earth plants
That remain
Facing into
Endless darkness,
With just a little star-shine,
Every night,
Without complaint.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Time flies when you’re on an emotional roller coaster.
—Kaitlyn Bristowe
_____________________
—Medusa, with thanks to today’s fine contributors, some of whom tackled our Seed of the Week, Snapshots. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan
A reminder that Poetry in Motion
meets in Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Sacramento Poetry Center
features Cloudy and Julie Valin
tonight, 7:30pm.
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!
meets in Placerville today, 10:30am;
and Sacramento Poetry Center
features Cloudy and Julie Valin
tonight, 7:30pm.
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!
play cards right…”
