—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
WITNESS
My father knows something I don’t.
Has seen something I haven’t.
Been somewhere I have yet to go.
When he returned, his brown eyes
were blue-gray. He looks at me
from that distant place he visited.
Its gravity holds him
between the place where we talk
and the place where he was taken by the stroke.
He has important things to tell me
through the grip of his one good hand. Stories
I must not forget.
The boy left standing beside his mother
in the wheat field during harvest
after she collapsed under the weight of the sun.
The boy who spent an hour tying
and retying his necktie
before going into town to see a movie with his
cousins.
The boy collecting payment
on his paper route—a handful of loose change
thrown into his face.
My father witnessed my birth.
I am witnessing his death.
We have something we must say.
My father knows something I don’t.
Has seen something I haven’t.
Been somewhere I have yet to go.
When he returned, his brown eyes
were blue-gray. He looks at me
from that distant place he visited.
Its gravity holds him
between the place where we talk
and the place where he was taken by the stroke.
He has important things to tell me
through the grip of his one good hand. Stories
I must not forget.
The boy left standing beside his mother
in the wheat field during harvest
after she collapsed under the weight of the sun.
The boy who spent an hour tying
and retying his necktie
before going into town to see a movie with his
cousins.
The boy collecting payment
on his paper route—a handful of loose change
thrown into his face.
My father witnessed my birth.
I am witnessing his death.
We have something we must say.
WHAT THE WAVES KNOW
My mother was a lifeguard.
She taught her children how to swim.
She turned nineteen
the day before I was born.
She talks about young love
while we watch north coast waves
crash against the sea bluff.
Eighteen and pregnant,
playing in the surf with my dad.
Mom jokes
about me bodysurfing
while still in the womb.
I tell her that I miss my dad.
She says, I miss my husband.
Of the ocean, she says,
It just is. Just is.
The waves know
there is nothing to become.
We are all complete.
Nothing is missing.
One day I will return to the sea.
It would take me now
were I to wade into its cold embrace.
Take me now or take me later, it doesn’t care.
How is it that I come to rest
in the presence of such relentless indifference?
If I ever grow old, I want to fall asleep
to the music of breaking waves.
I would like for that to be the last sound I hear.
WE DO THIS, WE DO THAT
inspired by Frank O’Hara
It took a while but we’re comfortable now
with my helping her with her shower.
We’re past the self-conscious joking.
We focus on the pleasures
of hot water, shampoo, and a bath sponge.
We take the time to scramble eggs
with parmesan, salt, and pepper.
Spend the rest of the morning cleaning up the
kitchen.
Some days we go out to the wildlife area
with our binoculars and a couple of drive-through
sodas
listening to rock-and-roll—
Mark Knopfler is a favorite but Elvis is the King.
During late afternoons, we tally up
the living and the dead:
a younger brother living and retired to the Philippines,
two of her big sister’s three sons still alive;
among the dead her parents,
her husband of 62 years.
She says,
I’m your mother?
Yes, I’m your son.
But you’re so old.
I’M THINKING ABOUT DEATH
Not my death or your death
not even my mother’s death
in my very arms but death itself
that voyeur always lurking
timebomb in the heart
seed of cancer in the sunburned nose
patient opportunist who I sometimes see
in the beaks of vultures
perched in the riverbank trees
or the angels etched into the frieze
at the cathedral.
Is it death who whispers slow down
when you should know there are deer
on the forest road this time of night?
Or says go for it when you look into the black water
from the jumping rock above the bridge.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
GOOD NIGHT, LOVE
—Shawn Pittard
I say good night to the moon
because you do not lie beside me.
To the North Star. Orion’s sparkling belt.
Good night to the streetlight. The lock
on the back door that I check twice.
Good night, love, I say to the place
in my heart where I carry you.
Good night, love, I will rest
with you one day.
_______________________
Witness
Our thanks to Shawn Pittard for today’s fine poetry! Go to https://thepoetrybox.com/bookstore/witness for info about his new book, Witness, from The Poetry Box, with pre-orders before Nov. 15.
And turn your clocks back tonight if you're in PST. A whole extra hour of sleep!
_______________________
—Medusa
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa
A reminder that today at 1pm,
Stephen Meadows reads at
Folsom Public Library;
Sugar Skull Art Walk takes place
in Placerville, starting at 5:30pm;
and Kings & Queens of Poetry
read in Sacramento at 7pm.
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!
Stephen Meadows reads at
Folsom Public Library;
Sugar Skull Art Walk takes place
in Placerville, starting at 5:30pm;
and Kings & Queens of Poetry
read in Sacramento at 7pm.
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!
