—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Nolcha Fox
BUMPER CROPS
The veggies all grow crazy
and then cascade to the ground,
where I pick them, clean them up
from all the muck and bugs.
If folks leave open
windows in their cars
because of summer heat,
I drop my bounty
into the back seat.
Otherwise, I decorate
car bumpers with my bumper
crops so everyone can eat.
The veggies all grow crazy
and then cascade to the ground,
where I pick them, clean them up
from all the muck and bugs.
If folks leave open
windows in their cars
because of summer heat,
I drop my bounty
into the back seat.
Otherwise, I decorate
car bumpers with my bumper
crops so everyone can eat.
FUZZY
A wisp of cotton candy
suspends the bluest sky.
Its fuzziness cannot disguise
the sharpness of the trees
that try to stab that cloud,
deflate its cheek for thinking
it can cover cosmic holes.
UGLY SWEATER
I have an ugly sweater
I bought for Christmas joy.
The dogs depart when it comes out
for fear they’ll have to wear it.
The Christmas tree drops needles
and hides its star when I walk by,
embarrassed by the sight.
The mistletoe falls from its perch.
My sweater clears the room.
I’ll celebrate in some dump bar.
I know I’ll drink alone.
MISTY MUSTY (a Haibun)
I called my optometrist to complain I couldn’t see through my new glasses. I told him he should get another job. He called me to his office, and checked my glasses carefully. He laughed and said the glasses were no problem, but there was something wrong with me. I stamped my foot and asked him what he meant. He told me I should clean them, and then I would see just fine.
How can I clean
my glasses when
I can’t see what I’m doing?
I called my optometrist to complain I couldn’t see through my new glasses. I told him he should get another job. He called me to his office, and checked my glasses carefully. He laughed and said the glasses were no problem, but there was something wrong with me. I stamped my foot and asked him what he meant. He told me I should clean them, and then I would see just fine.
How can I clean
my glasses when
I can’t see what I’m doing?
FROZEN INSANITY
He plays an icy piano,
not thinking
gloves can quell
his arctic chill.
He thinks some safety
straps will keep him
from a watery grave.
He thinks his call to action,
save the icebergs,
might be inspired.
I fear this crazy stunt
might be his last.
WALK RIGHT IN
Grief opens the locked door,
walks right in.
Nothing can keep him out.
Grief hangs his hat on the hook,
no hello, no how are the kids,
no handshake.
Grief flops on the couch
like he’s expecting me
to serve him food.
I’m exhausted.
Sorrow is hard work for little pay.
Grief will have to make his own dinner.
PASSING THROUGH
All we do is pass through here, the best way
we can.
—“Sometimes, I Am Startled Out of Myself”
by Barbara Crooker
I stumble on the hardened ground
where, once again, an aspen shooter
was mowed to oblivion.
The aspens, a grove of persistence,
a single tree turned multiple versions,
a single mind, determined to quake and shake,
to pass through the house, cross the street,
and take over the whole darn town.
we can.
—“Sometimes, I Am Startled Out of Myself”
by Barbara Crooker
I stumble on the hardened ground
where, once again, an aspen shooter
was mowed to oblivion.
The aspens, a grove of persistence,
a single tree turned multiple versions,
a single mind, determined to quake and shake,
to pass through the house, cross the street,
and take over the whole darn town.
TIMELY
I’ve always been tacky
in choices of watches
tack/tech/tick/tock/tuck
I might need some tech
support for my new Fitbit
tack/tech/tick/tock/tuck
I’d rather hear the tick-tock
of my grandpa’s pocket watch
tack/tech/tick/tock/tuck
I’d tuck it away
in a specially-lined pocket
tack/tech/tick/tock/tuck
STRUNG OUT
I walk a tightrope of frayed string.
At journey’s end it strangles me.
If strangulation be the means,
strangle me with strings of pearls,
diamonds, and other precious stones.
If death holds out its arms
to capture me, I’ll go out with a bling.
________________________
I walk a tightrope of frayed string.
At journey’s end it strangles me.
If strangulation be the means,
strangle me with strings of pearls,
diamonds, and other precious stones.
If death holds out its arms
to capture me, I’ll go out with a bling.
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
I always come in second.
I’m always
a minute late.
I come in second
because I’m at the table
eating my third dessert.
—Nolcha Fox
________________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for today’s fine poetry, and for finding photos to go with it. SnakePal Nolcha is the new Editor of online Chewers by Team Masticadores, and I’m sure that, if you sent her a submission, she’d be forever grateful! That’s https://chewersmasticadores.wordpress.com/.
I always come in second.
I’m always
a minute late.
I come in second
because I’m at the table
eating my third dessert.
—Nolcha Fox
________________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for today’s fine poetry, and for finding photos to go with it. SnakePal Nolcha is the new Editor of online Chewers by Team Masticadores, and I’m sure that, if you sent her a submission, she’d be forever grateful! That’s https://chewersmasticadores.wordpress.com/.
You go, girl! You got this!
(Photo Courtesy of Public Domain)
(Photo 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!
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!
