—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain
AMBER MORNINGS
pop and sizzle like bacon: dry roofs
are griddles frying late August
sunshine. Tatty birds in late-
summer moult are harvesting
what they can, fighting over acorns
in this longer slant of low-slung
sun. . . August mornings are short
on dew: they crackle in airless attics
like brittle old newspaper—yellow,
ready to crumple into fall: fold over
onto themselves: shatter their spent
leaves into compost to feed
the coming winter days. . .
AFTER LABOR DAY
Elephant ears on the catalpa are in constant
motion; restlessness that is Autumn has set them
flapping. The grey squirrel looks tired and ratty
as she mines dry oaks hour by hour, planting trees
of her own in soft soil. Woolly bears on new
lettuce plants foreshadow Halloween—dark
chocolate and pumpkin orange—and Christmas-red-
and-green Swiss chard has started to stretch itself,
grow away from the long, stagnant summer. . .
After Labor Day, neighbor kids are back behind
cramped desks, trading bare feet for buses and
the teacher's clock. And after Labor Day, the rest
of us move a little faster, sharpen
our edges as we try to store enough acorns
to meet those coming storms. . .
Elephant ears on the catalpa are in constant
motion; restlessness that is Autumn has set them
flapping. The grey squirrel looks tired and ratty
as she mines dry oaks hour by hour, planting trees
of her own in soft soil. Woolly bears on new
lettuce plants foreshadow Halloween—dark
chocolate and pumpkin orange—and Christmas-red-
and-green Swiss chard has started to stretch itself,
grow away from the long, stagnant summer. . .
After Labor Day, neighbor kids are back behind
cramped desks, trading bare feet for buses and
the teacher's clock. And after Labor Day, the rest
of us move a little faster, sharpen
our edges as we try to store enough acorns
to meet those coming storms. . .
AUTUMN BURLESQUE
My liquidambar is an odalisque, teasing me
with her leafy veils as she drops them
one by one. Letting loose her scarves of
chartreuse and vermilion, she shyly
shows off supple limbs that have been
hidden from sight and sunburn through
the long hot summer. The clothes
she coyly drops here and there are every
color—red so painful that it moves into
blue, green into ochre, gold into bronze.
Like Joseph, the coat she sheds is every
shade; like Joseph, surely she must be
the favored child. . .
My liquidambar is an odalisque, teasing me
with her leafy veils as she drops them
one by one. Letting loose her scarves of
chartreuse and vermilion, she shyly
shows off supple limbs that have been
hidden from sight and sunburn through
the long hot summer. The clothes
she coyly drops here and there are every
color—red so painful that it moves into
blue, green into ochre, gold into bronze.
Like Joseph, the coat she sheds is every
shade; like Joseph, surely she must be
the favored child. . .
AS THE RAVEN FLIES
No wing-shadows here, but we know
his long, glossy feathers are tipped up
on a late afternoon to catch
the welcoming Deltas—warmer air than
he’s used to—swell of soft updrafts that
lifts him, soaring, over this green and gold
quilt with its bright blue border, this fence-
stitched blanket with its long threads of
winding grey road. He’s headed south—
away from the land of Raven tales, of snow
and fog-tipped redwoods. Black eyes glisten
on surveillance in this rare visit to the middle
third of his coast: temperate waistline
of California: sandy soil he fashioned out of
sun and frost and raindrops: his benediction
of shadow that stretches across this
rich coastal tapestry, this afghan of amber
and green and soft gold…
No wing-shadows here, but we know
his long, glossy feathers are tipped up
on a late afternoon to catch
the welcoming Deltas—warmer air than
he’s used to—swell of soft updrafts that
lifts him, soaring, over this green and gold
quilt with its bright blue border, this fence-
stitched blanket with its long threads of
winding grey road. He’s headed south—
away from the land of Raven tales, of snow
and fog-tipped redwoods. Black eyes glisten
on surveillance in this rare visit to the middle
third of his coast: temperate waistline
of California: sandy soil he fashioned out of
sun and frost and raindrops: his benediction
of shadow that stretches across this
rich coastal tapestry, this afghan of amber
and green and soft gold…
Raven says...
JUST WRITE—
about cannibals and headhunters and circus
clowns, about the red spade leaning against
the barn. Write, even though your pen runs
dry/jams up/spits out big blobs of bluey-
purple ink and the cat won't stay off your lap
and it's 'way past breakfast time. . . Write
about that deer staring against old snow, about
the mole over your mother's left eye, about
brave children never born, chances grabbed
and missed, regrets tossed away like worn-
out party hats. . . Write, write! Don't let
there be space between pen and paper, air
after the periods, blank spots on yellow pads.
Just write.
about cannibals and headhunters and circus
clowns, about the red spade leaning against
the barn. Write, even though your pen runs
dry/jams up/spits out big blobs of bluey-
purple ink and the cat won't stay off your lap
and it's 'way past breakfast time. . . Write
about that deer staring against old snow, about
the mole over your mother's left eye, about
brave children never born, chances grabbed
and missed, regrets tossed away like worn-
out party hats. . . Write, write! Don't let
there be space between pen and paper, air
after the periods, blank spots on yellow pads.
Just write.
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Autumn teaches us the beauty of letting go. Growth requires release—It’s what the trees do.
—Ka’ala
________________________
—Medusa, with thanks to our readers’ patience on this Autumnal Equinox for putting up with more than usual Medusa-ink today…
Today’s LittleNip:
Autumn teaches us the beauty of letting go. Growth requires release—It’s what the trees do.
—Ka’ala
________________________
—Medusa, with thanks to our readers’ patience on this Autumnal Equinox for putting up with more than usual Medusa-ink today…
... about cannibals and headhunters …
A reminder that
ForestSong will take place
in Somerset today, starting
at 12pm; and poets
Chris Olander and Barbara Young
will read in Camino today at 2pm.
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!
ForestSong will take place
in Somerset today, starting
at 12pm; and poets
Chris Olander and Barbara Young
will read in Camino today at 2pm.
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!
