Laundry in October

 

—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Nolcha Fox

 

 

A CERTAIN STRANGER

I tried to open sleepy eyes
and look into the mirror.
A bad idea before the coffee
hit my fainting heart.
I saw a woman unfamiliar,
no one I’d ever seen before.
someone haunted by her choices,
someone sorry for her faults,
someone wishing for love lasting,
someone running from dark shadows,
someone lost in bad decisions,
someone doubtful of beginnings,
someone moving
toward a certain death.

 

 

 

 

THE WOMAN AND THE SNAKE

I am a gift you don’t know how to open.
Best leave me alone, you’ll find yourself inside.
I am the snake in every woman,
The woman in every snake.
Walk carefully. Avoid dark alleys,
red light districts, no-tell motels.
I leave behind red slippers,
a hint of jasmine,
an opium dream.
Of course, you’ll seek me out.
I am a myth that winds round your body,
a tail that grows larger with every telling.
I’m the place you’ve always longed
to visit, the place you’ve never been.

 

 

 

 

ALL EYES

Eyes disguise
my true intent.
They distract, you
lose the scent.
You don’t know if
I came or went.
I leave you in
ambivalence.

 

 

 

 

ALONG FOR THE FALL

What do I hear? Ears
must be twirling cochlear, fear
racing fast as heartbeat song. Wrong
of me to play along, belong
with lemmings, never think, sink
into salty drink, hoodwinked.

 

 

 

 

I HATE LAUNDRY IN OCTOBER.

The nights are long.
They drop their stars
before I’m home
from work.
But I still have
a pile of dirty
stuff to wash
before I go to bed.
I stumble through
the field and trip
on pumpkins
as I grope for
clothespins
and the line.
One pin in hand,
I hang the sheet
to scare the
neighbor kids.

 

 

 

 

GOSSIPMONGERS

Trees lean in mist
above the road
to whisper about drivers
who speed this stretch
on Halloween,
and often don’t get home.
They can’t decide if
they like red or white,
if cars or trucks
are more desired.
They agree, and laugh
with glee, that fires
are the best.

 

 

 

 

FALL

I wonder if the trees might fear
the fall of falling leaves
as much as I fear falling
when wind blows fall
into white chill and ice
is on the sidewalk.

 

 

 

 

OPEN FOR BUSINESS

The graveyard gate is always shut.
But every Halloween, that gate
mysteriously is open.

The caretaker swears it isn’t him.
He's too busy getting drunk
with buddies at the bar.

I think the residents get tired
of jumping gates, ripping clothes
that earlier were whole.

Now they walk unhindered
down the path, into the town
to scare up some good screams.

Satisfied, they drift away.
They’ll be back to live it up
same time, same place next year.

 

 

 

 

STINGY JACK

He loved his drink.
He cheated death three times.
Jack is the face of pumpkins
we carve on Halloween.
I don’t know yet if we can hallow
Jack on All Saints Day.
If he is not sober yet, he may
be drying out in Purgatory.
All Soul’s Day, we hallow him
and pray him up to Heaven.
We remember Jack three days
a year when spirits wander.

 

 

 

 

CATCHING YOU

You were the whistle of a train
ripping through the velvet night.
I couldn’t catch you.

You were the V
of homebound geese.
I couldn’t catch you.

I always loved you
but you wanted something else.
I couldn’t catch you.

Now you’re underneath a marker
I can touch.
I finally caught you.

 

 

 

 

AWFUL

My awful cough
is the aunt
who visited for
the weekend
and stayed for
two weeks.
She painted
my bedroom
fluorescent pink
and rearranged
my kitchen.
I’m so glad
she’s gone.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

FAVORITE FALL
—Nolcha Fox

Frequently falling
foliage fiery
foxy flaxen
faded fizzle.
Fireplaces
flicker, fume.
Fermenting
fluids, flushed,
flabbergasted,
fickle forecasts,
fondly fall.

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Nolcha Fox for today’s fine October poetry, and for finding the photos to go with it!!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For info about
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

Practice Fire

 —Poetry by Bartholomew Barker, N. Carolina
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Joe Nolan,
 Stockton, CA

 

 

LIMITLESS

I know the science

Some billions of years ago
the universe erupted into being
and some billions of years from now
the Sun will explode in a minor nova
and many trillions of years later
all the stars will go dark

But lying on this blanket
in some unsuspecting farmer's field
watching Perseid meteors
flare across the August sky
it all seems so
limitless

When I hold your hand


(first published by Prolific Pulse Press,
Heart Beats Anthology, 2020)

 

 

 

PRACTICE FIRE

"Local Fire Departments participated in a live practice fire at an abandoned motel yesterday. Over 80 firefighters participated and learned elements of fire behavior and crew operations."

I want to set a practice fire
in my life this weekend.

Watch it burn—
gaudy orange flames,
pillars of black smoke
visible for miles
so even school friends
I haven't seen in years
comment on Facebook.

Hop in the car
and just drive.
Withdraw money
from my 401(k).
Run up credit cards
in hotel bars.
Pay a Russian stripper
to marry me in Mexico
before she stabs me
in the back
at the border.

But just for practice
so I can return
to my tidy apartment,
quiet and alone,
then back to work
Monday morning,
smell of soot
still on my breath.


(first published by Gyroscope Review, 2020)

 

 

 

 

SELF PORTRAIT

A derelict cabin in the woods
yellow linoleum curls in the kitchen
strategic pans hold leaking rain
but behind the pile of moldy clothes
a spiral staircase

Down like a drill into the earth
to a room with piles upon piles
of books—hardcover and paperback
bright new and faded old
smelling of dust and drought

Down again to an arcane museum
with walls of unlabeled paintings
tables topped by collected curiosities
a busted harmonica—strange coins
holy passports—rocks and stones

Down again to where tree roots
barked like branches to be climbed
twist along rivers with sandy banks
of rocks smooth flat and perfect
warm as summer in childhood

Down again to an open field
under a night sky with a leather chair
and writing desk beside a fireplace
and on the mantle—lit by candles
the portrait of a woman

Closest to the sun
at the center of the world


(first published by Panoply, 2023)

 

 

 

 

ECLIPSE

When darkness struck, I shivered
even though I knew exactly
when it would happen and why,
visiting my daughter's grave
for the first time.

The eclipse wasn't my fault
unlike her death and the divorce.
I had no memory of the accident.
I trusted the investigators
but my guilt was intellectual
unlike that visceral fear
in the pit of my stomach
as the umbra crossed the Earth.

I wouldn't run into her mother
that afternoon at the cemetery
resting in the path of totality.
There were others around
but just for the astronomy.

I was the one looking down.


(first published by Sledgehammer Lit, 2021)

 

 

 

 

THE END

We ravaged our hotel room
like an aging rock star
after a career
of gold records and groupies.
We overachieved,
accomplishments both gory and glorious.
We flung our fellow men to the Moon,
our robots to the stars.
We tamed the wilderness,
consumed it whole
until Poseidon swallowed the seaside cities,
Thor hammered the flatlands
and Shiva burned the rest,
leaving our balding corpse
naked on the toilet,
gasoline overdose
still in our veins.


(first published by Postcard Poems and Prose, 2015)

 

 

 

 

DONATING A PINT

My blood looks like wine
as it pours from vein to vial,
a fine Pinot Noir
though with better legs.

I'd like a transfusion,
direct from bottle to arm,
bypass my burning stomach,
molten core of misery.

A nice Merlot will lighten
the mix flowing to my brain,
relieving regrets remembered
when I drink too little.

Like the Antichrist, I'm turning
blood into wine, one glass at a time.


(first published by NC Bards Against Hunger Anthology, 2020)

 

 

 

 

OUR LITTLE SECRET

Like a black lace bra
under a frumpy sweater,
our love remains hidden,
therapeutic and dangerous.

At an affair with friends,
nothing bold as a wink
passes between us,
just narrowed eyes
and raised brows
across the room,
the subtle signals
that spark excitement

and revive the confidence
that time has neither drained
nor left us crumpled.
There are still desires to fulfill
and plenty of poor judgment
to exercise.


(first published by Contemporary American Voices, 2016)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

 

If you reveal your secrets to the wind, you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.

 

—Khalil Gibran

___________________

Newcomer Bartholomew Barker works with Living Poetry. He has published a full-length collection, a chapbook and been nominated for a Pushcart and the Best of the Net. His work has recently appeared in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, Panoply, Tipton Poetry Journal, Gyroscope Review and the Naugatuck River Review among others. Welcome to the Kitchen, Bartholomew, and don’t be a stranger! (See more of Bartholomew at www.bartbarkerpoet.com/.)

____________________

—Medusa

 

Snow time ain't no time to STAY OUTDOORS AND SPOON...

So shine on, shine on, harvest moon (for me and my gal!).

 

Maybe you're too young to remember this old song. Some of them have rhymes that'd knock your socks off. Snow time ain't no time . . .

 

I told you—I saw the harvest moon—

 

 

 

 Bartholomew Barker

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For info about
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 Still smokin’ . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three Miles Through October

  Drift Of Memory
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam

 

 

JOYOUS
—Robin Gale Odam

Yes I have no shame
today—I am buoyant and lofty
again . . . there is more to be said—
blah blah blah.
                         

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/31/23; 1/9/24;
4/29/25)

 

 

 

Old Friends

THREE MILES THROUGH OCTOBER
—Joyce Odam
         For Ann

For lunch today we had tuna
with lots of mayonnaise, two
kinds of olives, cheese, and
oranges cut in wedges,

I drank milk, you drank wine.
Later we walked three miles
through October—at each fence
horses walked with us—we took
pictures of each other. This will be
the third day, I said, about drinking.

I’m proud of you, you said. When I got
home, I had a can of beer, three whiskeys,
and fell asleep beneath a blanket on
the floor, where I shivered.

                                                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/30/12; 7/5/22)

 

 

 

 Poet At The Podium

PAPER POEMS
  —Joyce Odam

once caught as stillness
it is still alive
the foam on the beer
the laugh in the camera

it was a taste of summer
the shivery trees saying
no, it’s winter

the fruit on the ground
and the yellow bees
and the fallen paper poems
have not moved

there is danger
in holding anything
things must grow old
and blow away

the day was a sad one
too much love to
never know
no one loves strangers

we do too love strangers
cry the strangers
from the smiling paper

but summer is over
it turned gray
and it tore for its life
at the overturned chairs

shiver by shiver the
summers returned
but nothing was ever
in the same order


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/1/22) 

 

 

 

 The Flock

OUT AT YOUR PLACE
—Joyce Odam

out at your place
where winds howl through the trees
and the river lies dark
underneath the cold glitters
of the moon
we have felt the winter rise

the deep shadows loom huge
from the trap-circle of the road
where the car waits
where once the river rose
that flood-time
your wilderness is widening to close us in
but you are not so aware of this
as of how safe we are within it

well, the hone-winds speak
and the river moves below us and
the trees above us bend
in the same direction
passing the moon between them
like an eye

it never is total summer here
at night those winds converse
and the water makes a growing sound
and the shadows change their size
but you are contented
your eyes not good, but seeing,
and your mind alive with future evidence

even in summer when we come to your place
for cold salad and beer
the winds are at work in the trees
and we joke by asking
if we are in some spooky movie
and you who always seem listening
to something else
pretend not to hear

 

 

 

 The Old Mirror

                                     

REITERATION
—Joyce Odam

Years later I found you in a bar
and sidled down beside you—
looked sideways and asked you why

you died. As usual, you didn’t answer
but just kept staring down
into the beer in which

you cried and cried and cried.
“Well, Hell !” I said.
“I’ve had it!” and rose to go.

And you raised your head
and asked me
not to go, so I stayed—
 
the same old scene
played out : though we
had much to say, we didn’t speak.

                                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 3/1/22)

 

 

 

About Belonging

 

THOUGHTS FROM THAT TIME
—Joyce Odam

It is how I see
the eyes of things.
The eyes of the child
opposite the eyes of the bird.
The twig of the tree
and the caterpillar
and the singing leaves
and the soft brown wind
in the mind
telling them things.

       
It is how I know
where the vision lies
in the eyeless things.
In the dark word,
in the spoken and unspoken miracles
of the waiting animals.
(Tomorrow I have heard them
in the town
where the answers coil like snakes
in the pathways of the questions.)


What is the least word
you will recognize
when you cannot find
the target
or the wound.
What will you say
to cancel the smallest dying.

           
Poems that have come out of love
or out of the mouths of children
are not to be broken.
They are the only things
that can forgive us.

           
What have I heard
that I know in the quietest hour
when the in-between of me
is held like a floating petal
in the pool


of some decision.
You smell like roses
so I hold you nearer—
gifts in a lost place
that we have found together—
gifts that I take
and put in water
so they can live
a happy while longer.

       
All over the world
there are men with sad guitars
in their hands.
There is not enough love for them
so they sing its sorrows
in their eyes.
When they look at me
I can never tell them
how to more patiently measure.

    
Oh man with sad guitar,
one part of world,
come sit beside me
and play me the song I love.
I will be silent
so you can know I thank you.
Let your eyes forget the tears
that burn in your haggard singing.


In the dissonance of hands
love is held,
singing and crying
and moving over seven strings.
Only six of them
are made of music.
And the unborn child
who is looking into the eyes
of the bird
will hear
and learn his first dark lesson.


Even after the handless people
have forgotten how to hold,
the touch will remember.
It will come to them
when they are seriously lonely,
listening for the sound
their fingers made
in angry strings—
just when they vowed
never to weep again.
       

After the silence
comes whatever is beyond silence—
it is how I see
the eyes of things.
The people who look through at each other
ok through each other.
The strangers
who lie in each other’s arms.
The broken wings
in the hand of the child,
and the dreadful innocence of his power.

    
In the mouth of the blond man
are marvelous words.
He puts them in a book,
and in the middle of our lives
who hear him tell us what he knows.
He is young.
And we are young, though we are old.

           
The perfect listeners
become so wise
they nod and smile in the room of friends.
Tomorrow we will be gone
and the room will find
its new people are not as reverent
as we who have told
our many stories to the dawn.
Oh, poor poor room,
so coldly rented,
we have left you
our warmest gift of being.

       
We are as old as everyone.
We are late and hungry
as any longing.
When we quarrel it is with laughter.
We need to envelop each other.
We have a certain destruction of words
that we use
like love’s last weapon.

           
Oh where have you all gone!
The bird and the child.
The hour of the hands.
The guitar who suffered the man.
Where have you gone,
oh bathtub full of flowers,
oh empty bottles,
and wrinkled paper on the floor.
Where have you gone,
oh me and you,
and the rest of us,
and the sleep we did not sleep
because there was love to know.
Oh where have you gone!

       
We have learned nothing, then
except
the sadder we are
the better we sing.
It is a day for hymns,
but we have hung our other crosses
to the walls.
We have not come for any
usual religion.
We have seen a place that had
sharded glass that twisted upward
into a halo of thorn design.
(That
is how we knew
it was Sunday.)


The lady with the lovely legs
is learning to drink as well as we.
She is laughing and holding
her salted glass over the poem.
She is going to read to us.
She is going to offer herself
if we will ever listen.
 
       *            *            *       
    
Nellie.  We remember.
And Harold and Stella,
and Vince and Bob,
and everyone else who came to us.
We have taken you home with us.
Open your eyes.
Do you wonder where you are?
You are here with us,
and it is only Monday.

                                
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/4/15)

 

 

 

 Just One More

Today’s LittleNip:

I WILL SEE YOU AT MIDNIGHT
—Robin Gale Odam

labyrinth of frail design
writing tales from childhood

word-by-word in whisperings
pen to salvaged paper

you sift through your memory
we open a cold one
 
you prepare an incense
this will take the breath of time 

 

 

 

 The Empty Flask

A memorial celebration of the life and poetry of Joyce Odam, who passed away in late September, will take place next Sunday, Oct. 12, 2pm, at

First Church of the Nazarene
1820 28th Street
(Corner of 28th & S Streets)
Sacramento CA 95816

Extra parking allowed in alley lot at back of church.

Robin reminds us that this is a memorial service, not a funeral. Come celebrate Joyce’s life and work!

And thanks to Robin Gale for today’s poems and Joyce’s visuals; our Seed of the Week was the irreverent “Empty Beer Cans”, and the Odams had something to say about that. . .  Robin continues to curate posts from the Odam Poets, despite Joyce’s passing.

Our new Seed of the Week is “The Owl Who Waits”. 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. 

 

"Snow time ain't no time to . . ." What? (no fair looking it up!) If you can finish the line, you'll know what I saw last night.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 I Call Him Horse
—Photo by Joyce Odam

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column at the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones  by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Writing About the Empties

 —Poetry by Claire J. Baker,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Caschwa,
Joe Nolan, and Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Medusa

 

 

A PABST BLUE RIBBON CHILDHOOD
—Claire J Baker, Pinole, CA

 

Mother let me taste the foam
each time she poured
a can of beer into her glass.

One weekend party with her friends,
I floated off on miles of foam
onto a breakthrough shore --

that, despite her charm & class,
the family needed to live with
mom’s sad inclination to overindulge , , ,

Yep, we neighborhood kids played
Kick-the-Can, but we never used
a stinky bent-up beer can! 

 

 

PUTTING OUT THE EMPTIES
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

It is the brand that can he shown,
a class, that’s how to litter streets;
all prejudice of nurtured years,
our fears, those unsophisticates.
It was the brew (though Scottish Bru)
tee-total Methodists raised rage.
Roll out the barrel, song for ale,
now rôle of cans to advertise.

‘Real’ advocates, as locals rise—
small brewers, note, and not the pubs;
all can be enemies of both,
with ring-pull, and that widget thing.
At park, beach, campsite, festival,
rust calling cards where alkies strew—
least proof, teens careless for the earth—
boxed twelve beside the six-pack chest.

It was that widget made the news,
as advent of unknown device,
but key to frothy Guiness beer—
prescribed, once, Ulster hospitals.
Beyond medicinal, John Smith’s,
for common man; I need a glass
with slow pour, slope, before the throat,
and then, recycling, crumpled, can.

Now ‘Putting Out the Empties’, hear—
near final day’s call shouted up—
as glass milk bottles left on step,
’fore locking up, TV unplugged;
the business done, a requiem,
like Tallis’ Canon, close of school—
‘Glory to Thee, my God this night’—
beer, tin can alley, not a thought. 

 

 

 

 

N’T
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(with elections impending, attention is steered
toward all the rights we had to win to get this
far)

This was the web my mother was trapped in,
you can’t, shouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t, etc.
Despite the passing of the 19th Amendment,
she couldn’t yet just presume she had the wholly
unobstructed freedom and right to vote, so her
participation in such activities was very limited.

Wasn’t until 1972, the year I graduated college,
that Title IX guaranteed Americans freedom
from sex-based discrimination in education and
athletics. Still kind of trapped, she had a husband
and 3 sons, so she enabled the males to move
    ahead
while she stayed put. Literally and figuratively:
Her husband didn’t believe women were capable
of safely operating a car, so again, she stayed put.

As late as 1975, fewer than 47% of moms with
kids under 18 had jobs. Instead, her 3 sons and 1
grandson went on to earn Bachelor's (2), Master’s
and Juris Doctor degrees. 

 

 

 

 

HIPPIE-BUS SPLASHED WITH APPLIQUÉS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

It only needed
A new engine
Every forty-thousand miles.

What’s wrong with that?
What’s a new engine
Compared to driving
A hippie bus
In the time of lost
Summer of Love,
From 1967,
Splashed with flower
Appliqués,
Peace signs and
Warnings against the War
In Vietnam
That was burning
Our Village-of-Love
To the ground?

It’s so obscene
How we burned
The naked
Running-girl
With napalm.
How could we
Be so cruel?

Why don’t we just
Stay home
And leave
French Indo-China
Alone?

 

 

 

 

ELDERLY DRIVER GIVES UP HIS WHEELS
—Joe Nolan

Scuffs and scratches,
Driven by an elderly
Consumer,
Not too well—
Both side view mirrors
Compromised,
One with its bottom shell
All shattered,
The other,
Pasted back
Into place
With glue.

Now that my Father
Is no longer driving
We have his car
Up for sale.

It’s only got
Sixty-thousand miles
So it’s really good to go
Much, much farther.

Come and check it out
If you need a car to drive,
Not to show.

 

 

 

DESCENT
—Joe Nolan

You’ve come from a place
Long ago and far away,
With your own culture
And standards—
Your own sense of
Balance and grace.

The world, since then,
Has spun through changes—
Blistered and boiled
Blighted and spoiled.
The old ways do not remain,

But you live in your own way,
In a balance of grace
That comes from your older culture,
Accommodating change,
As pillars are pulled down by Samson
And the world descends into rage.

 

 

 

 

GOING ON
—Joe Nolan

There’s still some sizzle
Simmer and boil
For those who’ve
Left me behind.

I know I’ll never recover
Something like peace of mind.

I go on in my way,
Sometimes dreaming
Of those I’ve needed and lost.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

THEY CAN DO IT TOGETHER
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

She always wanted to can can.
He always drank from a beer can.
He took his empties
and made her a table.
Now she has something to dance on.

_____________________

Our thanks to today’s contributors as we burst into October with fine pix and poems, some of which are responses to our Seed of the Week, Empty Beer Cans.

The October edition of Sacramento Poetry Center’s Poet News is now available at https://www.sacpoetrycenter.org/poetnews, including news about Sacramento Poetry Day, which has recently been expanded to Sacramento Poetry Week. Go to http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/sacramento-poetry-day-by-patrick.html for all the skinny from Poet News Editor, SPC President, and long-time Sacramento poetry fella Patrick Grizzell about how Sacramento Poetry Day came to be.

 

 

 

The Bay Area’s Frannie Dresser is following up her Snake Writing class with “Writin’ With Critters”, a Friday-morning Zoom workshop starting Oct. 24 and running six Fridays through Nov. 6, sessions from 10 a.m.-noon. Prompts, visuals/aural soundscapes, and other tips and tricks, traveling into the spirit world of animals, using mythology, cultural nuances, and science to inspire new work.$75-95 sliding scale; no one turned away for lack of funds. Go to janniedres@att.net/

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 . . . or get through it, at least . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents a reading from
Women in a Golden State
tonight, 7:30pm.
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Salt Wind & Cherry Blossoms

 —Poetry by Joshua St. Claire, York County, PA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

a redbud leaf
comes to rest
eastern amberwing

    ~ ~ ~

how could anyone
ever love you
cherry blossoms

    ~ ~ ~

Traumsprache
keening through dawn mist
cats in love

    ~ ~ ~

The Rite of Spring
the cowbird chick
fatter and fatter

 

 

 

 

puffing and strutting
a greater prairiecock
begins

    ~ ~ ~

nightspoom
dying in an oyster shell
Verlaine’s moon

    ~ ~ ~

Buson’s palette
burrowing into the sand
a arc-en-ciel of coquina

    ~ ~ ~

gathering altocumulus
the gulls circling
flotsam

 

 

 

 

stratus scud
low over the mouth of the Cape Fear
pelican squadron

    ~ ~ ~

a life twists
and browns
drought days

    ~ ~ ~

Gesamtkunstwerk
the play of evening sun
on a fawn skull

    ~ ~ ~
    
moonlight
striking
his
face
darkness
again

 

 

 

 

whisper dusk
talk of chemtrails
at little league

    ~ ~ ~

schlepping into the office
every Tuesday
stratocumulus clouds

    ~ ~ ~

country church
the lightning rod
on the cross

    ~ ~ ~

morning commute
a river of fire wraps around
Harrisburg

 

 

 

 

just skip
the metaphor
horned lark

    ~ ~ ~

stuck
in my throat
sprucewind

    ~ ~ ~

unhappy marriage
how she waned
to a pale crescent 

 

 

 

 

the speed of the raindrop depending on its size the buck

    ~ ~ ~

do they have a deadline too?
                                                    rain drops

    ~ ~ ~   

check engine light
not with a bang
but a whimper

    ~ ~ ~

salt wind
Bernini shaping
the juniper

 

 

 

 

conchoidal fracture
ChatGPT lies to me
with a straight face

    ~ ~ ~

a place for everything
and everything its place
paint-by-number lotus

    ~ ~ ~

in their own image
three boys
making mud pies

    ~ ~ ~

after snow
vultures circling the mountains
of the moon

 

 

 

still life
the homeless man
begging for change

    ~ ~ ~

winter grasses
a boar bristle brush
in mummy brown

    ~ ~ ~

gathering to open
Wallace’s briefcase
mackerel clouds at dusk

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Fall has always been my favorite season. The time when everything bursts with its last beauty, as if nature had been saving up all year for the grand finale.
 
―Lauren DeStefano, Wither

__________________

Newcomer Joshua St. Claire is an accountant from a small town in Pennsylvania; he works as a financial director for a non-profit. His haiku and related poetry have been published broadly, including in Frogpond, Modern Haiku, The Heron’s Nest, and Mayfly. Welcome to the Kitchen, Joshua, and don’t be a stranger!

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Joshua St. Claire

A reminder that
The Int’l Peace Festival
meets in Elk Grove today
2-6pm (poetry at 4pm).
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.

Poets’ bios appear on their first MK visit.
To find previous posts, type the name
of the poet (or poem) into the little
beige box at the top left-hand side
of this column. See also
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom
of the blue column on the right
side of this column to find
any date you want.

Miss a post?
You can find our most recent ones by
scrolling down under this daily one.
Or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column.
(Please excuse typos in older posts!
Blogspot has been through a lot of
incarnations in 20 years!)

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!