Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa, and Joe Nolan
—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain
ALMOST
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
It’s almost time to say goodbye
to autumn’s brilliant colors,
to leaves that crunch beneath my feet,
and winds that shake the branches.
First frost will show its icy grin
and eat remaining flowers.
My saddest day is when the fall
flees from its snowy cousin.
But now I hope first frost will bring
some rain and cold confetti
to put out all the fires here,
and bring back ashless breath.
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
It’s almost time to say goodbye
to autumn’s brilliant colors,
to leaves that crunch beneath my feet,
and winds that shake the branches.
First frost will show its icy grin
and eat remaining flowers.
My saddest day is when the fall
flees from its snowy cousin.
But now I hope first frost will bring
some rain and cold confetti
to put out all the fires here,
and bring back ashless breath.
SNEAKY LEAVES
—Nolcha Fox
We rake the leaves, sure we are done.
Our autumn chores are over.
We turn around and find more leaves
a gust blew from our neighbor’s.
We shake our heads, we think
tomorrow we will rake again.
Next day the leaves are crinkled,
dry, too small to even gather.
We leave the leaves, we know
the grass will thank us after winter.
A cold wind blows, all leaves depart
to mystify our neighbor.
MISHMASH
—Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA
It’s that time again
for skeletons and scarecrows,
pumpkins, gourds,
cornucopias, fruitcakes,
garland and string lights...
turkey, tinsel, pilgrims
and Indians, gift bags,
nametags, boxes,
and ribbons...
holiday movies, parties,
eggnog, spiked punch,
cookie baking, dreaming
of white on a cold
winter's night…
trampling people
for overpriced hot ticket
items, maxing out
credit cards,
applying for financing...
When it's over, it'll all be
75% off, until it's restocked
next year.
IT’S THAT TIME AGAIN
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
I
You think obsessive, so despised,
my certain fear for human berth,
life after doom unrecognised
But if our planet truly prized
as homeland for grandchildren’s worth,
my rôle in saving earth comprised?
From those who know, I am advised
there is no future, human birth,
life after doom unrecognised?
There seems no current plan devised
as I play part in action’s dearth—
my rôle in saving earth comprised?
Who is apprised, resource downsized,
too soon our globe to be unearth,
life after doom unrecognised?
It seems no hope, programme devised—
but can there yet be some rebirth—
life after doom unrecognised;
my rôle in saving earth comprised?
II
The cynic’s sigh, religious guy
parading that the time is nigh,
or prophet in the wilderness,
the message right, the means awry?
That placard, sign-high, lonely post,
a dried-out sandwich, there’s no doubt,
when social media, post that counts—
emotive statement—counter that.
Recurring—it’s that time again,
the LP, windup 78;
hear trumped up, trumpeted indeed,
apocalyptic—that last trump.
Like Jericho, whose walls collapsed,
religious fervour, taking land,
justification, holy writ,
while chosen claims right justified.
So here’s formal poetic trad,
a villanelle, of rustic blood,
the pastoral—a song and dance
for we are stewards of the earth.
III
That time again
Is that exasperated sigh—
that long-play record round again,
both wearisome, an outcome clone
as past, and only too well known.
Or high-five feeling, enthused cry,
excitement, shrill, thrill thought of it?
Else dreaded season, memories,
the mourning, glory, seed mix fixed.
That time again
From stopwatch dial like facial tic
to diary for a daily log,
or calendar, take longstop stock,
place blocked for those red-letter days.
But, saints alive, our mountain tops
now round smooth pebbles in the stream,
and comets call by on their course,
return fare, eighty thousand years.
That time again
Just as wound clock keeps circling on
so cycle seasons, yearly dates,
for none can hold old Father back,
those days to mourn or celebrate.
From era to space curvature
a periodic table laid,
the playbook on far greater scale
in which imaginations flail.
GOTTA HAVE THAT RE RE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA
(composed after watching a triple
overtime football game)
home alone, watching a sporting event on my TV,
feels like I’m a very, very privileged guy because
I have that Re Re (Refreshments, Restroom) just
a few short steps away, and I’m not blocking
anyone’s view if I get up and leave my seat
sure, I could have the limo leave me at the stadium
near the reserved seating area, and also enjoy the
benefit of Re Re a few short steps away, even
have someone else bring me food and drink
but the other Re I’d have to handle myself
IT’S THAT TIME AGAIN
—Caschwa
a firearm is discharged
leaving rude smoke in the nostrils
leaving fear in witnesses
leaving kids orphaned with no home
leaving money in the deep pockets
of those who make guns and ammo
leaving the wounded, bleeding, dying
leaving countless arguments muted
by the power brokers who manipulate
our Constitution to their advantage
leaving it up to hateful politicians to
deal with our most tender moments
it was that time again in a previous
administration, which found a way to
deter negative outcomes, but
it’s that time again for those who
represent the vulnerable masses to get
back to the business of keeping us all
safe, instead of promoting the inalienable right of:
money, Liberty, and the pursuit of more money
COMPLIANCE
—Caschwa
I Military
you’re standing in the ranks all set to march
the sergeant orders all to turn around
he grunts and barks and cusses like a hound
his mouth assumes the shape of Roman arch
you know you’d better do just what he asks
there is no pussy footin’ in his troop
if one hair’s not in place with all that goop
they’ll shave you bald and give you harder tasks
II Police
they won’t politely tap upon your door
they’ll bust it in with force you can’t oppose
you must be something awful they suppose
worst scum they’ve seen, behavior all abhor
you have become the target of their guns
they’ll take you out, split second, no regrets
so proud to beat the odds and win the bets
(until they see that you’re a group of nuns)
III Substitute Teacher
you ain’t my daddy, no for sure you’re not
you give us rules to follow, no we won’t
you think we owe you something, no we don’t
you look okay, that’s something we can spot
we usually play games when teacher’s out
we’ll show you everything you need to know
just sit behind your desk and hear us shout
we like you, man, you’re really best of show
POETS WHO DISTURB
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
I’d like
To collect
Some data points,
But I don’t
Have the patience
Or time,
About how
Words set in
Rhythm and rhyme
Are not
Necessarily
Poetry.
We all know
The writing
On Hallmark cards,
With messages
Sweet or deep,
All set out
In cursive script,
On parchment stock,
As our most
Commercially
Successful
Line of poetry,
But no one
Wants to agree
It has the
Pedigree
Of what poets
Are striving for.
Real poets explore
Artifacts,
Ancient acts,
Denizens
We deplore
And every awkward
Aardvark
Who never got
A single date
All his time
In high-school
Because we favor
The absurd
Over the blasé.
Turn your
Attention
Our way,
If you like
To be
Disturbed.
OUR LITTLE ECHO-ROOM
—Joe Nolan
Our little echo-room
Is growing smaller.
We hear your
Sonic boom
Growing louder
On your social media
Where you are free to rant
Without being challenged
By those you criticize.
The ceiling above
Is being lowered.
The range of acceptable speech
Is growing smaller.
We are putting people in jail
For posting things
They’ve failed to fact-check
That might be incendiary.
P.C. has grown into
Thought crimes and tyranny,
Perp-walks on
The evening T.V.
In Britain.
We’re getting close to 1984
Where government
Spells out what it abhors
To be spoken or written
Or really even thought.
Keep this in mind
When you choose
In the next election
Between the two selections.
Isn’t there someone else
Who’s better,
Whom we
Ought to choose?
SEPARATE AND UNEQUAL
—Joe Nolan
Not exactly equal
In our near-equivalence,
Looking across
The railroad tracks
From the wrong side of town,
Out across the
Evening shadows
To the streetlights’ glow,
Shining down,
So they can see
In the better part of town.
Separate but equal,
Equal, never found.
We lived our lives
Across the tracks
Where prosperity
Could not
Be brought down
To our level of living,
Down to our poverty.
—Joe Nolan
Not exactly equal
In our near-equivalence,
Looking across
The railroad tracks
From the wrong side of town,
Out across the
Evening shadows
To the streetlights’ glow,
Shining down,
So they can see
In the better part of town.
Separate but equal,
Equal, never found.
We lived our lives
Across the tracks
Where prosperity
Could not
Be brought down
To our level of living,
Down to our poverty.
POST-APOCALYSMUS
—Joe Nolan
We’d still be able
To pump their oil
Even if it glowed
In the dark.
We’d still be able
To eat breakfast-sausage
Even if it was
Radioactive.
Looking on the bright-side,
We could take midnight walks
On paths through the woods
Without the need for flashlights
Since our self-effulgent
Luminescence
Would be enough
To see us through.
Who cares
If our kids
Have two heads?
They can keep
Each other
Company
And teach
Each other
To speak.
It might be
Rather
Interesting
When everyone
Is a freak.
It’s something
To look
Forward to.
____________________
Today’s LongerNip:
In honor of Sacramento Poetry Week:
THE THOUGHT-FOX
—Ted Hughes (1930-1998)
I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Beside the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.
Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:
Cold, delicately as the dark snow
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now
Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come
Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business
Till, with a sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.
____________________
Our thanks to today’s contributors for their fine poems today, some of which were based on our Seed of the Week, "It's That Time Again". Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.
It’s a busy week in Sacramento, with plenty of events to keep local poets busy. Keep an eye on https://www.sacramentopoetryweek.com for Sacramento Poetry Center happenings.
And once again, my apologies to Richard LeDue for my having attributed last Saturday's poetry to Victor Kennedy, rather than to him. Get it together, Snake Lady...
Back in the day, one of the first RattleChaps published by Rattlesnake Press was These Rivers by Sacramento’s Shawn Pittard, about one of his main loves, fishing. Now The Poetry Box is publishing his new poetry collection, Witness, slated for release 12/15/24: an exploration of family, love, aging, and dementia. For a limited time, the press is offering Witness for a special, pre-order discount through November 15, during which time you can pre-order his book for $12 and be one of the first to receive your copy in early December. See all about it at https://thepoetrybox.com/bookstore/witness/. Congratulations to Shawn—and to the other Shawn, Poetry Box’s Shawn Aveningo Sanders, now of Portland, but once-upon-a-time from Sacramento.
Witness
—Poetry by Shawn Pittard
Need to publicize your project? Don’t be shy about asking Medusa to spread the word. We’re easy that way…
____________________
—Medusa
____________________
—Medusa
A reminder that
Poetry in Motion takes place in
Placerville this morning, 10:30am;
and Sac. Poetry Center presents
SPW Slam 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!
Poetry in Motion takes place in
Placerville this morning, 10:30am;
and Sac. Poetry Center presents
SPW Slam 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!
