Bad Weather & The Elf King

 

—Poetry and Visuals by
Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal, 

West Covina, CA

IN BAD WEATHER

Somewhere the sun rises.
And somewhere else someone screams.
In bad weather
there is often a traffic jam.
Who has not been stalled in such weather?
The car horns are uninterruptable.
Everyone loves to honk their horn.
I would rather rest at home,
sit in the shade in the garden,
drunk on wine,
or with a cold drink of water.
What would you prefer?

 

 

 

 

IT IS NO GOOD

It is no good
to lie in the weeds
with a knife wound
and late evening
erasing your face.

It is no good
in late evening as
a big tractor
or fire crushes
you or burns you slow.

What can I say?
You heard me. It is
winter and there
in the fields you
lie deformed and dead.

Lastly, there is
a hungry beast that
feeds on your face
as life’s dark tale
takes all your love.

 

 

 

 

THE ELF KING

The elf king
crept in from the chimney
one night a year.

It went to all places,
even America.

It was dressed in all green,
even its shadow was green.
It was small as a roadrunner
and slithery like a diamond back.
It was scary like a tarantula.
It was not very tall.
It had blond locks.
It was thirsty for milk and honey grahams.
It hated the guard dog.
I watched it and its green
shadow in the hallway
looking at me

before it ran away and crept up through
the chimney. The elf king
told me to keep quiet.

It replaced the Christmas tree with a cactus,
a spiky one, green as its shadow,
green as its coat, pants, and hat.
The elf king told me
to take care of my family.

 

 

 

 

THE BLANK SHEET

Let’s sing on the blank sheet
for an hour, half an hour, or
for a few chaotic minutes.
Let’s sing of days and nights,
of good and bad times with
words, with a sentence or two.
Let’s bring dancers around
who can dance as we sing.
Let’s sing of happiness and
misfortune. Let’s sing for the
birth of water and fire. Who
wants to join me in song?
Let’s sing of all things real
and surreal. Let’s sing about
you and me if there is any
space left on the blank sheet.

 

 

 

NOTHING ELSE TO SAY

Nothing will ever be the same again.
I watch as you take someone else’s hand.
There is nothing else to say even if
I am still in love you. That is the one
thing that will not change. It really does
not matter. Not even poetry can save me.
I will take my leave before you see my
face. Who knows what will emanate
from it? Quietly, I let it register that it is
over. I hear the birds sing me to sleep.
I hear passing trains in my dream. I am
on one. I am drunk in my subconscious
state. I make my mind a vegetable. I am
not ready to begin my life again. Why do
the birds sing so joyfully when I cannot
see the point of life? It was so long ago
that I was born, such a long time ago.

 

 

 

 

SLEEP

Reading makes me sleep.
Any book will do.
There is no right book.
I could read about the sea.
I could read about Japan.
I sleep in the tall grass.
I sleep in the hills.
I sleep in the valley.
Beyond the mountains
I sleep and count sheep.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

IN A HOUSE
—Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

In a house
where silence
breathes heavy
by the sea,

a kneeling
man shouts out,
to the wind
and nobody.

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Luis Berriozábal for today’s fine poetry and his own visuals to go with it!

 

 

 

 

Corner Launderette

—Photo by Luis Cuauhtémoc Berriozábal

 

A reminder that 

on this busy day we have
Petaluma Poetry Walk;
Mosaic of Voices in Lodi;
and in Sacramento:
The Gallery Poetry Event;
Sacramento Poetry Alliance;
Second Sat. Reception at SPC;
and Derrick Brown & Friends
later this evening at SPC.
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!

 

 LiittleSnake sleeps, counting sheep~