They're Watching You.....!

 —Poetry by Victor Kennedy, Maribor, Slovenia
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

THE GHOST IN THE MIRROR

I didn’t believe in ghosts
I never saw one
but I was looking in the wrong place

When you get old
you become a ghost
you speak but nobody hears
and nobody sees you

unless you’re attached to a dog
They smile at the dog
then their eyes follow the lead
and the smile fades and they pass by

Other old people meet your eye
They can see you
but they pass by too
They see their reflection
and they’re not interested either

I avoid mirrors
I feel like the same person
(with a sore back and blurred vision)
but the mirror shows
the white hair and the wrinkles

The face in the mirror is just a shell
full of fading memories

Now I understand
why vampires have no reflection
why ancient people feared sneezes
why remote people feared cameras

We’re taught
we have an eternal soul
and it’s hard to believe your eyes
when you see it fading away 

 

 

 

J. ALFRED DEFROCKED

You wear the bottoms of your trousers rolled
So what?
I've been doing it since I was a kid
Did you ever get your pants leg caught in a bicycle
chain?

And about those sirens
Do you really want them singing to you
when you're taking a ride in an ambulance
or the fire truck is coming to your house?

And the snickers?
Well,
chocolate and peanuts
are really not bad at all

All that about not being the star of your own show?
Do you really want to read about yourself
in the tabloids?

Listen, Harry
Tom had a way with words
but he had his problems too
Why should I compare myself with him?
“Anxiety of Influence”?
Sure you're not projecting?

I woke up this morning and wrote this all down
Well, not all of it
I took a break in the middle
to take the dog out for a wee
But I didn't forget the rest
'cause my brains aren't addled with laudanum
Sorry, Sam, it was the medicine
not the poor old Person.

Ourselves in poetry
aren’t taking the place
of much of anything
nowadays 

 

 

 

 

DREAMS

When I was five
after school
I used to climb up Dollar Glen
beside the Burn of Care,
find a quiet spot
in a meadow of grass and wild flowers
bees buzzing in the heather
I’d lie on my back
watching the skein of cirrus in the bright blue sky
and dream about being an RAF pilot.

When I was ten
in school
we had nuclear attack drills.
When the bell rang
we hid under our desks
for protection
in case they dropped The Bomb.
I dreamed of charred bodies
in the smoking rubble that had been a city.

When I was fifteen
one night
the Devil appeared to me in a dream.
She didn’t do anything
just stood at the foot of my bed
and watched me.
I haven’t seen her since
but every so often
I have the feeling she’s watching.

When I was twenty
in college
I read The Interpretation of Dreams
and dreams became a game
a party trick to master
to impress your friends
and chat up girls.

If there’s someone
you can tell your dreams to
you’re lucky. 

 

 

 

WE’LL BE WATCHING YOU

Every single day
Every word you say
Every bill you pay
Every place you stay
We’ll be watching you

Since you logged on, privacy's gone without a trace
Your camera's on, we can even see your face
You look around but it's gone, you can't replace
Cash is so cold and we long for its embrace
We keep on crying give us your password, please

Oh, don't you fuss
You belong to us
We don't have to guess
At every key you press

Every cent you spend
Every buck you lend
Every card you send
Every rule you bend
We'll be watching you

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

ODE TO AN INCEL
—Victor Kennedy

When ere thy true love thou dost scorn
Why, then thou should’st peruse some porn
To ease thy mind from thy lonesome woes
And bring this saga to a close

For in this bind thou art not alone
When sayest thou, true love hath flown
Too bad thou art in such a pickle
Since her fancy thou didst not tickle

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Victor Kennedy for today’s fine poetry, and wishing tons of treats and no tricks to readers everywhere!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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!

 

 LittleSnake’s Ghost Costume

(Trick or Treat!)

Naked in the Wind

 —Poetry by Michael Dwayne Smith,
Apple Valley, CA
—Public Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan,
Stockton, CA

 

 

THE FALL APPROACHES

He pressed his feet solid against the ground, alone,
a man, he thought, in the making. Present is best,

it’s best to stay there, burrowed in “I exist,” as the
empty thunders and rains wash the fiery roses and

sun strokes boil it down to malady. There’s a rare
place of tonics to be found: moon over shoreline,

campfire, arms raised to blue-violet heavens, and
barber shops, dive bars, parking lots as big as lakes.

Who now from his grandfather’s time. From what
barn or office building. Who will save his neck.

Who will chalk the cue, clear the table, and re-rack.
Whether bonding or shooting: Ideas of God. Needs

to embody a path, walk upright, walk righteous,
his father at the kitchen table with a bottle, his

mother in a car racing away. Summer tense, sharp,
iridescent, wholly ignorant of its imminent death.

 

 

 

 

NIGHT WHISPERS

I’ve been hidden way the hell out here,
a hundred-plus miles northeast of Los Angeles,
in a breathtaking stupor among the locals,
everyone with sand in their hair
and in their scuffed leather boots.
It’s a beautiful summer night in the Mojave,

though no one is listening to the low lecture
of the hills and the river— humming
a warm breeze, interspersed with
the burble of nighthawks. What does it matter?
Circa 1875, everyone in the City of Angels
knew one another, or at least their families.

There were no such class distinctions
as we have today. Now, it’s midnight
in early August and everybody in that flat
city is alone. Out here, the stars
flirt with me, and I’ll pour an iced tea, slide
the flesh of a fresh lemon wedge onto the lip

of my glass, make a call to a friend
and talk about my tumor, as the old
adobe cools among moonlit Joshua Trees.
This desert by day tells so many lies you
have to write them down to keep them straight.
Night whispers terrible truths about spring.

 

 

 

 

BILLIONS NAKED IN THE WIND

October is here & on the TV a serious woman says,
We don’t know if we have the courage to forgive
them.
October, yes & at the local open mic a sad man
reads,
I have to tell you about another shooting & of the
children
dead. The dying again & again condemned. The
clubs
& the markets & the gun stores open all night.
October
in climate change & it’s a hundred + three while
on TV
Helene floods five hundred miles of end-times
destiny.
I sleep & wake with grief lapping at my feet twenty-
four
hours a New York, Chicago, & L.A. day. A song
can
hardly have the words. The crowds can barely
contain
a self. Our bodies are dressed in the morning & then
dressed for the coffin in the dead of night. If we
steal
rainbows from God, then good. He doesn’t know
what
to do with them. If your course is overrun with
wolves
screwing up your game, then good. It’s time you
stopped
playing with your little balls. Supper is ready.
The beef
is burned. The wine has soured. It’s us to be
devoured.

 

 

 

MIDNIGHT MOJAVE DATE,
FIRE SEASON, 2024

She says, “Grimes makes me feel like I’m 15 again,
crying in an American Apparel dressing room.”

She says she used to slump in her car before work,
listen to Oblivion, and gradually accept her fate.

Hey, Lexie, if you didn’t matter, you wouldn’t be
telling me this. I was drunk yesterday

but somehow managed to online order two hoodies
and a 15th anniversary Blu-ray edition

of Buffalo ’66. I ask her, Do celebrities have to be
famous on weekends? I’m thinking yes.

Let’s give each other fat lips and hickeys.
Let’s outgrow our appetite for mirrors and noise.

Tonight, in a September surrounded by three wild
fires and a desert, it’s a supermoon so bright

the fenceposts can see their own loneliness. So get
ready to have your mind blown

by someone tired of always being so goddam right.
Energy, syzygy— you don’t have to choose,

Lexie, because that’s the way
we’re doing things now: gas station bathroom
selfies.

 

 

 

 

CHARON’S REGRET

The ferryman of souls watched Styx and Acheron die.
It was real slow, the water changing color, becoming

more and more viscous, fishes bobbing to the surface,
their eyes empty sacs, bodies bloated. Charon said

nothing. He has one job and he does it, though he’s
never been sure who, in the end, is his supervisor—

underworld or over? It’s just back and forth and back
and forth, never any questions or explanations, just

collect the stupid tax: so many coins, so nowhere to
spend them, not to mention time— the ferryman of

souls has none to himself. The dead die ceaselessly.
And the rivers, well, he never expected them to retch

with this toxic sludge. He’s had to work harder and
harder to row his oars on this skiff in the mud. He’s

beginning to feel like a stick in the mud himself. No
call-off days, no vacations, no chance to start a family

or a hobby or a diary, even. All these souls, all those
tales to tell. If he’d taken the time, hell, he could have

heard a shitload of great stories over many millennia,
could have maybe written and sold a script or two.

He could be lounging by a Palm Springs pool right
now, next to a sexy soul, slurping Mojitos in the sun.

 

 

 

 

I’LL ASK TO WALK HER HOME

Mona Lisa’s debut was actually a drag. Matisse
arrived
from the future, on horseback, and fell right to sleep,

scissors in hand. The police brought Pete Rose up
close.
He was in handcuffs, nose nearly pressed against
her,

but soon he too was snoring, as the future tends to
feature
better lighting and sound effects. Me, I went to
school,

and there they told me her smile was everything
about
western civilization captured in one slight, wry
crease.

Her face will not, does not illuminate. And she
cannot
play piano, as it hasn’t yet been invented, which
annoys

Ludwig Van to no end. I’ll be whatever you want,
she says.
I can hear her— though Jesus and the Phoenix seem
deaf.

Traffic signals are always yellow at the intersections
in my neighborhood, and I see her visage hanging
in cool

morning colors. She says, I left Leonardo behind
a long
time ago. I lay daises in the crosswalk. Want to
drive her

in my ’87 F-150 to the Sacramento River, sit and
watch
a sunset. Want to build her an adobe house in the
Mojave

Desert, far away from Joshua Tree, and walk her
home.
I want to be the cure. Whatever she wants, I’ll be
that.

 

 

 

 

I ORDER ONE LAST CLUB SANDWICH
AT DENNY’S

We pretend, when the rain comes, not to listen
to its drumming against the roof. We know

too much, sit in the worn gossip of our booth.
People stream in and out of the diner, prattle

about this or that, order their usuals, oblivious
to our graceless presence, with the plate glass

misting around them. We’ve gone underground.
The windows to past and future have shut.

Like us, the dingy shopping center outside made
promises it couldn’t keep. Last summer, the road

was hot, and we offered ourselves to each other
at a deep discount. The weather neither saves

nor spoils us. Our eyes meet and we talk softly
about other people in our lives, the concrete

pathways they tread, the homes and buildings
they fill in cities we can’t inhabit. I remember

a treelined highway from a road trip years ago,
before we met, after I’d decided to run away

from an old life. The waitress brings my club
sandwich with fries. You hold your tea in both

hands to sip. Now we hear the rain, the familiar
blue patter. What was it I was saying, I ask.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I had to live in the desert before I could understand the full value of grass in a green ditch.

—Ella Maillart

____________________

—Medusa, with welcome back to Michael Dwayne Smith, and thanks for his fine poetry today! (And thanks to Joe Nolan for photos to go with it.)

 

 

 

 —Cartoon Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lie On The Dreams

The World in Neon Glow

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Visuals by Joyce Odam

 

 

THE FAIRY TALE
—Joyce Odam

All night the captured dreamer must ride on the
back of the bull through the forest of her own
dream through tangles of vines with white leaves
that catch at her hair, and through the four direc-
tions that keep pointing and quarreling to keep
her lost. Morning is at the other end of the dream
but she is holding her arm across her eyes as if she
can stay asleep and not believe where she is—her
sleeping-gown in shreds—her posture one of mes-
merized foreboding. The night is heavy and deep
and  has no dimension—it has swallowed every
sound and left her this muffled passage where the
bull, like an old protector, must bear her along—
for as long as she needs, in this precarious half-
sleep, where she cannot feel or hear the comforting
snort of his effortless breathing, or the carefully
stepping delicate tread of his feet.

                                                                     
(prev. pub. in Poetry Depth Quarterly, 1999) 

 

 

 

Fallen Rocks

 

 
SHALE DREAM
—Joyce Odam
   
… a wide rock road becoming narrow
shale, slipping away under my footsteps,
falling into canyons—at first I was driv-
ing a car

on a rocky path, now the car is parked
like a toy in its misdirection, a slow
rumble of thunder hanging like dread, I
balance on sharp, slick,

peaks in a wet gray wind—cold darkness
coming on—someone calling out in-
structions—holding out a hand—the
glass I hold
 
impedes my rescue—finally I realize
that if I put the glass down with one
hand I can reach out with the other, but
when I put the

glass down it falls with a magnified clat-
ter, and I am still precarious, but now
I can almost reach
the fingers …


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/1/19)

 

 

 

Fragile

  

 

VERY NEAR 

—Robin Gale Odam  

Now the road is steeper still,
steeper still and near the top—

and the child of fear is yet so small
and the edge of the world is very near.

___________________

SOMEONE CRYING BY
—Joyce Odam

Someone crying by this morning
sends his voice into the house
in a disturbing half-cry, half-
laugh, song-like and loud, and
out of place for this neigh-
borhood.  A dangerous sound.

The room goes still, pulls in,
where I have lost my thought,
fringe of other sounds becoming
loud while I try to measure
the direction of this one soul, cry-
ing by so peaceful-early.

Thus the day begins, with appre-
hension—and I think of this.
He has gone by, taking his
misery with him, and I can let
the noisy day continue: that air-
plane    those birds    this clock.

 

 

 

Frame of Mind

 

THE PUPPETEERS
—Joyce Odam
After John Singer Sargent, Marionettes.

fire-lit against a glowing wall
marionettes dance
clashing    
falling
dangling
against the strings—
obedient . . .

in brimming dark, an audience stares

at the whimsy of the real
their own lives
at conflict and peril,
laughing at the
jerky performance—
the sad relief of metaphor . . . .

 

 

 

Artifice

 

 

MARIONETTES
—Robin Gale Odam
After John Singer Sargent, Marionettes

the others made us dance
but there was one in the shadows
pleading, listen to this song—heavy
your heart and cry with me—heavy your
heart, the one voice said, and cry with me

                                  
(prev. pub. in Brevities, March 2016; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/14/23) 

 

 

 

Mystic

 

 

THE SORCERESS LOVES
—Joyce Odam

If I say red,
you see red.
such is the power of my language.

I lean close to you,
let you feel waft of lavender
from my old flowers. You love me.

I read my book of spells,
every night and into the morning.
You never catch on.

I sigh blue at you
and you hold me. I moan
silver . . .   silver . . .   and you weep.

You cling to my gray cliffs of peril
and I create white gulls
to release us into flying.

Look! We are everywhere,
as in
a swirling kaleidoscope of color.

It is your dream, and I have entered it.
A long thin stream of black
cuts under us, and I rescue you.

                                                                        
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/17/10)

____________________

VARIATIONS ON A THEME BY H.D.
—Joyce Odam
After “Chance” by H.D. (Hilda Doolittle)

Chance—whatever Chance is—says,
Come here,

and if I hear right, asks me,
Can you bear…?

And I can bear much,
and enough.

And Chance says, Sweetheart….
and I blush at the endearment

and take it for my own.
And Chance goes on about

love and loneliness,
and I commiserate,

and Chance confesses
all its fears and longings :

wind, bird, sea, wave, low places and the high air,
and I regret repeating so much of this,

but Chance forgives if only I will
promise…,   promise…,  

but there is such worriment
and so much peril in the world,

and Chance calls me Dear,
and says: I’m here,

and don’t you want me
anymore?

And I consider all the verities
of Chance—and no chance—and how often

Chance has guided me,
and I turn, and answer, Of course I want you.
                                                     

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/10/15; 2/16/21) 

 

 

 

Variant 

 

DRIVING FORCE
—Joyce Odam

Scorning death, we step too carelessly
into paths of our desire—

of near and far—of stone and rut—
where flowers grow across the perils;

we step across
the deep and shiny pud­dles

where something lurks
and something threatens—

only here
and never there—

we take no detours.
Paths keep yearning—we have to follow. 

 

 

 

What Is There

TAKING THE DANGER AWAY
—Joyce Odam

A long walk away from danger. I do not like these
vast and unimportant streets, vague neighborhoods,
houses closed against our wandering past—too sad
for talk—only the long slow walk away from our-
selves—everything crumbling behind us. Only the
present moment that is real—only this cold satura-
tion of winter giving us this heavy momentum—
away from the sad house where our safe children
wonder where we are and why we are gone so long.
Numbness follows like a lethargic dog. We hold
hands lest we fall dizzily apart. We keep only the
silence, the echoing silence, that keeps filling ahead
of us, that we must enter, and continue to follow,
the meandering of this direction.

 

 

 

Lure

I HAVE LEFT YOU AN EMPTY ROOM
—Joyce Odam

I have left you an empty room
filled with music
and the last scent of my leaving.

When you arrive
you will find the cold tea
waiting in two cups.

There will be two cushions
on the floor
and an ashtray for your cigarette.

One soft light will be burning
to protect you from the dark.

The cat will be curled asleep
as if there were no danger.

The window will bring
summer breezes in
to make a small comfort of fanning.

The second LP record
will be playing what our love
remembers.

There will be no note.
You can stay
as long as you wish.

 

 

 

Self Portrait

 

 

HOMELAND    
—Joyce Odam               

Come to the hawk land.
Bring bones.
Wear necklaces of teeth.
Watch for the slippery shadows.

You will become as one of those
who have always lived here.
When you hear wings,
climb stones
till you reach the nest.
Climb in.
Lie on the dreams.

The children you own
will thrive here.
They will be wild and hungry.
They will choose their own names.
They will live precariously
on the cliffs of your fear.

Whoever loves you
will never undo your power.
The shadow is your love.
The nest is your land.
The hawk is your mother.

                                 
Cal. Federation of Chaparral Poets 1988

1st Prize, Theme Poem Category:
Realms of the Supernatural;
Pub. CFCP Forty-Ninth Annual Convention
Prizewinning Poems

Also pub. in The Bridge, 1998; and
Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/15/10; 10/2/18;
2/1/22; 10/15/22)
      
___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

dreaming in the dream
distance far away from here
closeness on the heels

ever since the faraway
ever cast the runes of shade

—Robin Gale Odam

___________________

Our thanks to the Odam Poets for casting good spells over us with their poetry and pix today for our Seed of the Week, Danger! (Watch out for those dangerous dreams!)

Our new Seed of the Week is “In Nature there is darkness as well as light, and all shades in between”—a quote from a PBS Nature program, "Soul of the Ocean". Send your poems, photos & artwork about this (or any other) subject to kathykieth@hotmail.com. No deadline on SOWs, though, and for a peek at our past ones, click on “Calliope’s Closet”, the link at the top of this column, for plenty of others to choose from. And see every Form Fiddlers’ Friday for poetry form challenges, including those of the Ekphrastic type.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week. And remember: The hawk is your mother.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

By Day She Made Herself Into a Cat
—Painting by Arthur Rackham

For 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!

 

 

 

Dangerous Poets

 Medusa, cleverly disguised as a witch
—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

* * *

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Caschwa,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan,
Sayani Mukherjee, and
Michael H. Brownstein
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of

Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Medusa

 

 

OH, THE HORROR OF IT ALL
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Halloween is still days away, but horror
rides unmasked on the streets.
A killing frost assembled its thugs
to cruise our small-town roads.
The amount of carnage they’ll inflict
on trees and late-bloom flowers
will make fair autumn flee
into the frozen arms of winter.
We’ll have to don our heavy coats
before we raked the leaves.

 

 

 

Alien Kids

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SHEAR MINDLESSNESS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

two shepherds met in the woods
each had their own flock of sheep
they couldn’t agree on could should, or would
so they parted, forever to keep

their flocks as mindless as a pet rock
moldable, trainable, idiotic
each a gun loaded full and half cocked
no fear of danger, ready to kick

ass at the polling booth, of all things
registered to drop a #1 or #2
then exit like they had wings
and could fly off into the blue

followers of outcomes wait to see
how things will go with these 2 shepherds
which one has the golden key
to unlock the gossip of little birds? 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy 

of Medusa

DANGER !
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

It may be cliff edge, downfall scree
loose stream stones to oblivion;
flood water of storm flowing free
unleashed from damn burst reservoir.
Bullmastiff, boxer, straining lead,
unmuzzled terrier, the street;
dark night, unlit, quick flash indeed,
purse grab, more shiv, in cut and thrust.

A scam, or worse, the fair-game one,
entrepreneur, unproven track;
a supplement, enhancing run,
the medal-hungry jumping high.
Old soldier on the battlefield
whose troops die for his glory day.
Safari on the veldt, well-heeled,
pride lions, zebra, monkey troop.

Now risk averse, we trigger warn—
but not in universal terms;
art galleries, religious borne—
the bible as a book indeed.
The New Atlantis, artists’ oeuvre
like Francis Bacon, everywhere—
world portrait well beyond the Louvre,
where everyone should take offence. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Stephen Kingsnorth

BRITISH TIME
—Stephen Kingsnorth

‘The mists of time’ a hackneyed phrase,
but phases of the rising sun
are set upon, twice year attack,
as hands moved round to change the hour,
both back and forth to tame the time.

So do we rise at 2am,
to gain or lose, manipulate
the clocks that regulate so much,
grandfather’s slow sonorous tone,
the cuckoo first heard when it springs?

How do they alter Big Ben’s voice—
(the pips remain unaltered choice,
all six supplied by BBC)
or deal with dials that mansions face
with swinging sixty pendulums?

And as for henge with stones for hours
where sun is neither stopped nor rushed,
how can they turn the granite dial,
pre-Roman numerals in place,
new meaning, ‘being set in stone—

This past weekend we gained our hour—
as nightshift lost out with their wage
for laboured on without more pay;
when six months comes a shorter night
will then their pack be docked when clocked?

The body clock will slow adjust
like jetlag groaning forth and back,
but evenings darker, home from school
unless the Northern Lights perform.
The last hymn saw the organist.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

OFF TO A DAY AT THE LAKE
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Let us ride
The slip-stream
Into shining,
Top down
On our Cadillac,
Wind in our hair,
Heading off
To our camp at the Lake,
Outside Saratoga.

With my doctor’s plates,
The Troopers won’t stop us
Or even slow us down.
On the straightaways,
We can do eighty,
While the sun
Warms our skin
In the breeze.

All along the lakeshore
Camps align the lake,
Perfect for summer
Recreation,
With everything
You need
To fish, boat and swim.

We’ll all be together,
Crazy as we are,
All the better
To be free and wild
As we blow away
A summer day,
In our usual style.

 

 

 

 You shoulda got a cat instead!
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE BARGAIN PUPPY
—Joe Nolan

I opted for
The bargain puppy
From the
Litter for sale,
But later
I wondered
If my
Strategy failed
When I had
Some basic
Problems
That took
A long time
To solve.

Maybe things
Might have been
Easier
Had I bought
A higher-priced pup,
But being a novice
At buying a dog,
I thought the cheaper one
Would be enough
For me to be
Content with,
Overcoming
Every fail,
With patience and
Perseverance,
Regardless of
All that ails.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SHOPPING LIST
—Joe Nolan

Remember to re-read
Your reminder note
When you get to the store
To shop.

There’s at least
A couple items
There
Your memory
Might drop

If you don’t remember
To remind yourself,
Again,

Since the virtue of youth,
That includes the mind,
Is no longer your bosom friend.  

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ELDERLY COUPLE
—Joe Nolan

Elderly couple,
Growing older
Together,
Memories
Lost in dreams.

Each remembers
A different version
Of what they’ve
Been through,
Together.

Different orbits
With different spins,
If that was all,
Things would be
So much better,

But all the ways
Things diverge
Question
The basis
Of having been
Together at all.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

HUNGRY GHOSTS
—Joe Nolan

Do not pray for the world—
Pray for those
Who have loved the world,
But could never get their fill.

They shall become
Hungry ghosts
Who linger in spirit
In opium dens
In brothels
In drinking bars
Where spirit is consumed
In material alteration—

More and more
Hungry ghosts
Ready to join
The cloud
Where hunger is
The heart of the hour
As lust in all its forms
Is empowered.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

GOD’S HANDS
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

A blue sky of tattered past
Of sublime wishes and neverending past
A poetic reverie of past sense
Of diamonds and opal linen sky
A two-pence watch to sell for
The night sky of ever-changing wishes
Of topaz and blueness at this hour
I surmise my clock to send for
God's hands in my prayers
Of what ifs and crestfallen goodbyes
As if the sky was ablaze with midnight memories. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Art Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

Today’s LittleNip:

OCTOBER 30th, 11pm
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

When the saints march
and the dead rise from their graves,
do not be afraid.
They are only pumpkins
on their annual parade.

 

__________________

 

 

 

Pig Onna Punkin
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

Our thanks to today’s contributors for poems and pix—I’d say they were horrifying, but that sounds like an insult. Well, horrifying in a good way… Our Seed of the Week was Danger! Nothing like a dangerous poet on the loose.

 

Next Sunday is the end of Daylight Savings Time out here in the West. I didn't know the UK had their own version of it, but Stephen Kingsnorth's poem marks the occasion over there.

 

* * *

 

B.L. Kennedy (1953-2024)

Be sure to check out the Kitchen next Sunday for our tribute to B.L. Kennedy, who passed away last Monday from a number of health issues. Bari helped a great deal with Rattlesnake Press in the early days, contributing poetry, poem-pix, reviews, interviews and more, and he will be missed.

* * *

 

 Joe Walsh

Congratulations to El Dorado County’s Joe Walsh for having his poem, “Contemplation”, featured in The Mountain Democrat as Poem of the Month. See https://www.mtdemocrat.com/prospecting/poem-of-the-month-contemplation/article_0b84c906-8642-11ef-853d-1ba05429750a.html/.

 

 * * *

 

 There’s nothing quite as horrifying as a good pun.

—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

 ____________________

 

 —Medusa

 

 

 

Medusa's Kitchen on Halloween

 (I guess Medusa flew off on her broom.)
—Public Domain Art Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
No Last Name and Alias
will be reading at
Sacramento Poetry Center
tonight, 7:30. (I know who 

Alias is but I'm not telling.)

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!

 

 

Winter Memories

 —Photo by Everton Vila

* * *

—Poetry by Margaret Coombs, Manitowoc, WI
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Margaret Coombs

 

 

KOHLRABI

When I bite into the strange root
I found growing in my garden it tastes

like the summer I turned twenty-two
and lived alone for a week before

my roommates arrived. Every night I devoured
a frugal supper: steamed veggies

from the farmer’s market. I was in love,
hadn’t yet shared my new number with him.

We were at the back border of a summer fling.
If I let go, I’d quickly recover. Or

we could face fall together, nestle
in deepening darkness, count calendar days

till the date he left for the job he accepted
before he met me. I waited another week,

then a third. I heard that he borrowed a car,
drove past my former lodgings, sought me

on the street. Oh love, oh lover.
How exquisite the power before the leap.

 

 

 

 —Photo by Geoge Eiermann

SHE IS A HARD NUT

Do you know there is a woman
who lies on a soft rug,
warming her hands
in the sunlight
that flows through the window?

She holds a thick book to her face.
Flecks of its brown leather binding
crumble onto her body.

That woman is a knot not wanting,
maybe wanting someday
to be unraveled.

But now her core is taut.
She is the seed of a horse chestnut tree.  

She has a high haughtiness.
Don’t crack her.

 

 

 

 —Photo by Jorge Fernandez Salas

A MEMORY OF WINTER

He dies dramatically
and quickly in a cable car
hanging in the Andes.

Something cardiovascular
strikes. The pain
does not last long

before he flies, a condor
of high altitudes, over
stone peaks. Uncle!

his goddaughters cry,
because they love him.

Passing through a portal,
he becomes the memory
of winter so that humans

won’t forget. He meditates
on austerity, glaciers, the wind.
Preferring the tropics, lonely,

he remembers
a winter girlfriend,
how quickly the heat rose

between them. Ice
and passion. Danger and warmth.
He balances these thoughts

on the edge of a sheer drop-off,
watching the thaw draw near
so much faster than expected.  

 

 

 

 —Photo by Margaret Coombs

MY WINTER SLIPPERS

are foot-kayaks
covered
in a Scandinavian pattern—

white abstract designs
geometric snowflakes
floating

in a berry-red background
next to a strip
of midnight sky

they open at the back—
flat-bottomed boats
I shuffle my feet into

they carry me
at night to the lake
of my dreams where I dive
into strange depths

they wait at the cold shore
while I explore
night, murk, darkness

alone

at times they float above me
rescue rafts
for when I wish to stay
past returning

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THE WANDERING ROOMMATE
—Margaret Coombs

The robot cleans while I sit
with feet up and my husband is out

shopping. The robot’s work
is excellent. I may never vacuum

again. Still, it feels strange to assign
this labor daily to a self-propelled

machine. Thank you, Roomie, I try
to remember to say, using a name

we two humans created
because gratitude is necessary;
sentience not.

___________________

—Medusa, welcoming Peggy Coombs and her fine poetry back to the Kitchen~and thanks for finding the photos to go with it!

 

 

 

 Margaret (Peggy) Coombs

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Poets & Writers of the Sierra Foothills
features William O’Daly, Bob Stanley
and musician Terry Cobb in Camino
today, 2pm. 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!