Manitoba, Canada
—Creepy Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
—Creepy Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
NO REPARATIONS FOR BEING
MIDDLE-AGED
Sitting in an average-sized bedroom
writing sonnets daily
because it seemed more poetic
than working on a fatty liver
years later,
only for my 20-something self
to move into my parents' basement
and smile at my self-imposed symbolism,
where my poems were captured
inside dollar-store notepads,
and my friends, who could sing
and play their guitars, left me
looking talentless,
among the jugs of draft beer
writing their own elegies
all over our Saturday nights
at an open mic in the bar
upstairs from a restaurant
still there today, but with a different name,
until everyone surrendered
like an army of bed sheets
so afraid of being ghosts,
we found purpose in white flags instead.
MIDDLE-AGED
Sitting in an average-sized bedroom
writing sonnets daily
because it seemed more poetic
than working on a fatty liver
years later,
only for my 20-something self
to move into my parents' basement
and smile at my self-imposed symbolism,
where my poems were captured
inside dollar-store notepads,
and my friends, who could sing
and play their guitars, left me
looking talentless,
among the jugs of draft beer
writing their own elegies
all over our Saturday nights
at an open mic in the bar
upstairs from a restaurant
still there today, but with a different name,
until everyone surrendered
like an army of bed sheets
so afraid of being ghosts,
we found purpose in white flags instead.
FOOTSTEPS IN MY ATTIC
I had more friends 20 years ago,
but now I have more memories
haunting my brain
like it's a hotel going out of business,
so it isn't afraid to let some lies
wear the faces of the dead
to pay bills beyond mere dollars,
but having never seen a real ghost,
I know that being alive is frightening
enough for me to need footsteps
in my attic, reassuring me
I'm not completely alone.
My grandmother's shack
was torn down years ago,
so her empty beer bottles,
jingling hymns
during my childhood,
are gone,
or should I say they were smashed
for dramatic effect?
While that overgrown green lot
she never owned
is a poem without me,
making rhymes from names
struggling to be
never forgotten
and dead Sunday afternoons,
when fiddle music danced
with static on an old radio
that wasn't worth mentioning
in her will.
NOT KNOWING WHAT I’M MISSING
The past pulling on my pant leg
like a child I can't ignore,
only to spill my drink
and worry more about the ice
in the freezer than the hangover
tomorrow, as the whisky whispers
the same secrets I imagined
I was never told as a kid,
leaving me drowning
in an empty glass.
THE ENCROACHING COLD
Another Canadian winter is breathing
down the neck of Autumn,
while yellow leaves fall,
jealous of flowers who were too bright
to think about the snow,
only for me to squint at the thermostat,
trying to decide on the right number
to help suffocate the encroaching cold.
Any fantasies of sleeping naked
left to lie awake with goosebumps,
and even the necessity of body heat
becomes just another luxury
we don't bother with,
leaving a barren driveway to wait
like someone wanting to taste love,
but settling for snowflakes.
DOING IT WITH STYLE
For Al Purdy
A dead man trying to make sense
of history and revolution
in his poems
proves something about life
being longer for those
who could put words to it all,
but then the book's spine cracks,
giving me a lesson about the past
book binding techniques
that never gave a thought
to my clumsy hands ruining pages
forty years later,
even if I paid nearly 50 bucks
for a discard, out-of-print book,
which made love to the dust
on some library shelf in Toronto
with more style
than I'll ever have.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
WHILE FORGETTING
SHAKESPEARE’S SONNETS
—Victor Kennedy
Dissecting an earthworm
in a high school memory
seems like a good way
to look at death:
latex gloves keeping fingerprints innocent,
scalpels dulling youthful enthusiasm
and no one thinking
about how there's enough
worms for everyone.
_____________________
—Medusa, thanking Richard LeDue for these fine poems, which I originally attributed to Victor Kennedy. My bad!
Richard LeDue
A reminder that
Dave Boles and Chris Olander
will be reading at
Sacramento Poetry Alliance
today, 4pm; and
readers from 16 Rivers Press
will be featured at
Sacramento Poetry Center
later this afternoon, 5pm.
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!
Dave Boles and Chris Olander
will be reading at
Sacramento Poetry Alliance
today, 4pm; and
readers from 16 Rivers Press
will be featured at
Sacramento Poetry Center
later this afternoon, 5pm.
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!
