What Will They Teach Us?

 

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

 

 

ANTS AND ANSWERS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

What do ants learn
in daily rugged terrains
of peaks, crevasses, walls,
water, detritus, dust gathered
higher, wider, more dense
than their entire bodies?

Do ants bond with providence,
pause to reflect on predestination,
nibble on tidbits of redemption?
Build altars near anthills?
Cache bits of food? What will
these wee professors teach us?

 

 

 

 Longhorn Beetle
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE BUGS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Creepy crawlies in my bed, they slither underneath the sheets. They nibble at my toes and legs. My ears are filled with scritchy scratchies. My body is a mass of bites. My brain is full of dead distractions, liquified by constant caffeine. And then there are my kids….

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustrration Courtesy of Medusa

SPANISH FLEA
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

My gym routine driven by scales,
piano, 5-finger exercise,
though damper on the sustained strings,
my mottled foot, jazz fleas, bite work.
The score, Tijuana Brass,
sound notes as jumping Spanish Flea,
though who cares nationality
when trumpet blasts blow fleas away.
We all had itchy feet that night,
in dingy basement with the roach.

 

 

 

 Silkworm
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

BUGGED BY BUGS
—Stephen Kingsnorth

With exoskeleton, hard, crept
a new word, English lexicon—
that nation insectivorous—
but lately spreading ’cross the pond,
a Bunny, like grey squirrel type.

Invading species, welcome not,
as ancient native is replaced;
but spy such usage, once spurned, now
a shortcut slang for real term served—
bacterium or microphone.

Or maybe laptop victim here,
devices listen, inner ear;
both hover, bee, essential ’sects,
a complement to pollinate,
as I’m left humming, bug-alert.

So bugs surround, conspiracy,
to listen, sicken, corrupt files;
if only hedgehogs benefit.
We lower screens where light emits,
and welcome swallows sweeping low.

So stags and mayfly, roaches too,
full endo, exo panoply,
for they play part in Greenman’s plan,
far less destructive, human rōle,
leave hydrocarbons sprays on shelf.

It bugs me that one sound suffice
for all those meanings overheard—
verb, noun, cartoon, germ, common cold,
all bear the blame and carry weight,
just too much sitting on our plate. 

 

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WE ARE A NATION OF LAWS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

(Bugs—to fix)

Well, it’s likely that bell doesn’t ring as true
as it used to, being that our prisons are over
capacity, and that ain’t so red, white, and blue

And there are convicts who are executed
based on one set of facts, then contradictory facts
prove the earlier set should have been refuted

In the meantime, our lawmakers have built
a citadel of laws that only the most powerful,
flashy gladiator could overcome to avoid guilt

Ordinary citizens are completely vulnerable
to this crushing avalanche of insinuations and
overkill, and need something more tolerable

Perhaps we should no longer give police officers
a seat or voice in Congress, so we can finally fix
the bugs in this monstrous, phony game of rock,
    paper, scissors 

 

 

 

 Butterfly Close-Up
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

FITTING AND APT
—Caschwa   

(After a recent Seed of the Week,
An Unexpected Guest)

Knock, knock
    This room’s taken

Knock, knock
    Close the curtain!

Knock, knock
    [silence, the island of paradise]

Alone with my thoughts, just looking for
a fitting room that is appropriate to try out
different forms for my new poem

Let’s see, iambic or trochaic, or maybe a
mix of the two. What rhymes with total
annihilation? Do I even dare try a haibun?

Been meaning to write one of those poems
that needs 6 words, each of which has more
than one meaning, if you get my meaning.

    Knock, knock
I’m busy writing a poem
    We are closing now, if you don’t leave on
    your own, Security will escort you out

Ok, see you tomorrow 

 

 

 

Ladybug Larva
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

DOWN, PLEASE
—Caschwa

If the news was a Muse . . .

A certified toadologist must forego
all the princely accoutrements and
settle for being lowly, disregarded,
and dispensable. Give me today my
daily toe jam, warts, etc.

Only the king of kings gets first bite
of a newly opened bag of chips, the
last beer in the cooler, the best seat
in the house, and everything is already
paid for.

Fine women come a’courting, none
resort to snorting, they undress their
entire lives to be refashioned with a
royal kiss. If perchance they came to
the wrong place, they become the bride

of a toad, a common taxpayer, an
underpaid laborer, her only self-image
is mother to too many, more on the way,
unable to even count to one anymore.

Dreams are only found in higher stations
which are occupied by noble souls who
would not hesitate to crush you to death.

Give me today my daily lecture, I must
know my place and serve the king, even
if he is obnoxious, unruly, and slovenly.
Or maybe there is a better way? What if
we lowly folk were entitled to vote and
in response receive laws that serve us?

Stop that right now! Questions are not
allowed in the bargain basement, you
must first be elevated to a higher station… 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

HOPING FOR A BETTER OUTCOME
—Caschwa

If you’re just playing solitaire
on your home computer and no
certain money or property
is at stake, and you don’t win the
game but elevate the score a
bit higher than where you were, luck
can make you happy because that
is indeed an increase from where
it was and so you deal again
to try to repeat your good luck
on the next draw; however in
reality, if an errant
driver totals your fabulous
5 year old luxury car and
their best offer is no more than
market value for a 5 year
old car, but less than your full cost
to replace the wonderful car
that had served you so well, you are
not going to be very happy. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

ASSASSINATIONS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

The crossing of the Rubicon
Led to Caesar’s slaughter.
Republican senators
Found him out of order
In the Roman Republic
Where they didn’t want a king
To overrule its ruling class,
So they decided to kill his ass,
In an event we all remember.

It was the original conspiracy
Where Rome’s senators
Mobbed his ass with daggers
And even his dear Brutus
Stabbed him in a tender spot
That shouldn’t even be mentioned.

“Et tu, dear Brutus?”

John Wilkes Booth
Said, in Latin,
“Sic Semper Tyrannus!”
When he jumped down from
Lincoln’s balcony
To the stage of Ford’s Theater
After doing his dirty deed
With a single-shot derringer
Spent inside his pocket.

But Oswald said he was a patsy,
And, most likely, he was.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

BUGS
—Joe Nolan                                   

I am a fly.
I don’t know why.
It wasn’t up to me.
I’m not a self-made fly,
Conceitedly.
At least I’m not a flea.

I am a flea.
Or, if not,
Ever so nearly
Might I be
A dapper flea.

Or maybe a honey-bee?
Buzzing on your flower
To rest my wings for hours
And with your honey, flee.

Such is the way of bugs,
To lurk about in rugs
And have a need to bite thee
Now and then
If ever so slightly!

Ever made a bug your friend?
So many ways those friendships end:
A crushing of a shell
A bat-shit crazy yell
A bomb
Or a spray
Or any other way
Might do as well.
It isn’t hard to tell
A bug
To bug off!
 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

NOT YOU
—Joe Nolan

Exactly, no.
The obverse of an aardvark
Is still yet to show
Underneath an awning
Of shade you
Can’t let go

While everywhere
There’s flowers
In and out your hair
That shine in sun,
Letting pale observers
Know that you’d be fun
If they had you,

Which they won’t,
Since you
Are fairly selective.

______________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HAZE
—Sayani Mukherjee, Chandannagar,
W. Bengal, India

The autumn windfall of fallen leaves
A shadowy misty river-water
Sat by the upfront, the river cried
A dozen zenith-fulls of wavering sadness
I churned  the fall from the seasons
Of Tulip's most unkempt secret
A lonely hazardous blush garden
All around a thorny buzzing
Fall came with its basket
By the river it was
As I carried the leaves with the moist touch
So all were symphony of a cacophonous haze.

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to today’s contributors, some of whom  wrote about our Seed of the Week, Bugs.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
features an all-open mic
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hunting For Angela

 —Poetry by John Grey, Lincoln, RI
—Visuals Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

THE DAMN BODY

Can't tell the body anything.
It’s out there preening
on the baseball mound.
It's strutting down the sidewalk.
It's in a crowd.
It's by itself, folded up into a park bench,
feeding its mouth peanuts.
Can't say body take off that cop's uniform,
or soldier's khaki or bus-driver's navy blue.
Can't get one to do your bidding.
Stand straight, stop scratching,
keep your legs together...
give bodies all the orders you want
but don't expect obedience.
There you go, looking in the mirror again,
thinking well at least my own body
will do what I tell it.
I can just hear you:
lose those pounds, waist,
smooth out those wrinkles, face,
put back that muscle, upper arms.
The body's good to have,
good to have around you,
but it won't listen to a word.
Besides, a word is just a sound
a body makes.
If it sounds like a resolution,
it’s more likely just a smirk. 

 

 

 

 
 

IN AUGUST

The sun is heavy.
Its light weighs down
our shoulders.
The sky is over-full.
But of blue, not rain.

Time, in these houses,
is reduced to something
akin to a board game.
Garner enough minutes
and you have yourself an hour,
enough hours
and that’s a lifetime.

People leave,
take their shadows with them.
I’ve a hole in my heart
wide enough for a truck to pass through.

I hold a hand
held together by string and tape.
It is my own.
I have no finesse
and little function.
Daytime is a blunt object.
Night, if there even is a night,
is a sharpened saw. 

 

 

 

NECROPOLIS

It’s a cemetery
but I prefer the word “necropolis”
like it’s some kind of city of the dead
with a large tombstone for a city hall, a bunch of
bones for a mayor,

No housing problem, of course.
Everyone’s got their own box.
No hunger.
For the worms and weevils that is.
No loud noises,
except for the occasional thump of a shovel.
Very little traffic
and mostly above ground.
And no crime.
The bludgeoning that cracked
Ernie Jones’s skull happened
a week or two
before he moved in here. 

 

 

 

 

ANGELA, WHOEVER YOU WERE

It was fourth grade.
Arithmetic, English.
Social Studies and death.

The outside was bright and warm,
the classroom dark and cold.
Typical of early Spring.

It wasn't Susan,
the one whose blond ringlets
rolled down the back of her dress—
oh how I wanted to run
my fingers through them.

No, it was some girl called Angela.
Spectacles and freckles.
Her empty chair
was the first time I'd ever noticed her.

Our teacher explained
that she would not be returning to us.
Those are the words I remember.
Not anything Angela ever said.

The room still smelled of chalk
Sheila Gross continued to shove her hand
in the air and shout, "Me! Me!"
every time the teacher asked a question.
Billy Ramsey and I talked in class no less.
And Susan's ringlets tempted me
as they had always done
and would continue to do
for the next two years
before her military family moved.

I once tried to track Angela on the internet
though I couldn't remember her last name.
So no luck there of course.
Some people exist a million times online.
But most, not at all.

I used to think schooldays were a simpler time.
I now know they were a naĩve time
and there's a difference. 

 

 

 

 

THE FOOL

The fool inside my clean white skull
is engaged by dizzy wind
into scratching his annoyances
across the eyes and ears of those close to him.

His life held in check by sky,
he figures himself for a survivor,
his crazy tongue
a way of freeing himself
from the others in his corral.

Oh this fool considers himself immense
even if he should be locked in handcuffs,
reckons the self-inflicted he
to be the ultimate in revelation.

So he plays upon the shock
of telling you what he really thinks,
even if that comes from not thinking.
He considers himself wise beyond his years
but is that really fearful beyond all rationale?

His cry for justice passes out of his mouth
and he bullies facts and memories
like they're a kid with glasses
but he may as well paint his face
and don a cap with bells.

Oh the fool has just said something
that only a fool would not regret.
It can't be taken back.
It can't be traded in.
It can only wait around for a response,
physical or emotional.

And then I'm not such a fool as I thought I was.
Shit, I should have just kept my mouth shut.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The person who writes for fools is always sure of a large audience.

—Arthur Schopenhauer, Religion: A Dialogue and Other Essays

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to John Grey for today’s fine poetry! And apologies for today's late post; server probems.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that Georgetown’s
Arts in Nature Fest
takes place today, 10am-2pm;
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents a discussion about
a potential workshop:
Polyphonics: A Workshop
of Poets in Conversation, 11aam;
at noon, First Church of Poetry
meets in Sacramento;
then at 2pm, SPC features a
reading & discussion on
a new book, Sacramento Noir;
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.

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!

Chasing Fireflies

 —Poetry by R. Gerry Fabian, Doylestown, PA
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain 

CREPUSCULAR REVELATION

Chasing fireflies
three days after
school promotion,
running, grasping, catching
releasing.
Eventually winded,
we sit
on the large rocks
next to Penelope Creek.

You snuggle next to me
and pull my face to yours
and kiss me hard on the lips.
I pull away.
You try again.
I push you away.
You grow angry and punch my arm.

“There are many boys
who will want to kiss me.”

Now, four years later,
you are correct.

 

 

 

ETHEREAL ELEMENTAL EYES

She can see the blue in breath
and discover the depth
of cold tint in lies
or the azure of ocean truth.
Her vision sees the kind blush heart
as well as the currant-cold heart.
These eyes can discern
the slightest tangerine touch
and immediately process
if it is Carob caring
or mauve malevolence.
Her intense palette eyes
can accurately paint a portrait
within several seconds of contact.

 

 

 

 

TOKEN INQUIRIES

Rumor and gossip follow you
like a frightened novice detective.
Slurred speech forms your portrait
in the style of some second-rate
pointillistic paint splatter.
In the late evenings,
mongrel dogs avoid
your side of the street.
Any suspicious activities
limp across to rest on your door steps.

When called to appear before the authorities,
you arrive in a custom-made black striped suit,
a wearing a black Fedora
and a gold-handled oak cane
with a young woman clutching your arm
who is so attractive
that the building secretaries gasp
at her slender figure
complete with long strawberry-blonde hair
and buttermilk skin.
Her demeanor totally convinces everyone of your guilt
but garners nothing more than humbled apologies
for the intricate inconvenience.

 

 

 

 

GATHERING MOMENTUM

I slowly lower myself down under this oak tree.
No spreading broom tree, baked bread,
jug of water or angel urging me on.
Like Hemingway’s ‘Santiago’
I have gone way too far.
There is no way I can make it back.

It “goeth before the fall.”

Spontaneity,
I try and convince myself.
There is a town five miles up the road.
It’s my only real chance.

“No cell service” I’ll explain.
“What were you thinking?”
“I wanted to see the cabin where I was born.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“There’s a part of my soul there.”
“What are you mumbling about?”

I lean against the tree to try and get up.
The rest has done nothing but allow
my already aching legs to stiffen.
I’m pretty sure I don’t have five miles in me
but I’ve been wrong before.

 

 

 

 

THE NORTH FORTY

I am heading into the forest
with the Brittany and a fishing pole.
The destination is Patterson Creek
where the speckled trout glide
through the tree-shadowed water.
The Brittany is like a drunk on Saturday night
sniffing here and there in a zig zag pattern.
It is mid-summer and the forest is cool and green.
The strong vegetation smell hangs in the air—
an aroma of comfort.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Last year I went fishing with Salvador Dali. He was using a dotted line. He caught every other fish.

—Steven Wright

____________________

—Medusas, with thanks to R. Gerry Fabian for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that 

 Poetry in Parks meets at the 

Empire Mine State Park 

in Grass Valley today, 1pm; 
Drunk Poetry w/Andru Defeye
takes place today at noon
at the Press Club in Sacramento;
and Sac. Poetry Center
features the release of
Tule Review and
New Rivers Quarterly
tonight, 6pm.
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.

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!

 

 

So Soon . . .

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Lynn White,
Stephen Kingsnorth, Claire J. Baker
and Caschwa

 

 

THE REST OF THE STORY
(Upon reading “A Small King: A Mystical
Rewilding Along Portugal’s Rio Côa”
 by Nicholas Triolo)

This walk isn’t about rewilding,
though sidewalks laid years ago in plans
for development are cracked
by what we call weeds, a small green rebirth
of storks-bill, dandelion, thistle, clover.
Vacant field rejoices in spring,
it’s Easter. I walk for my health,
regeneration, rest for the soul. By the pond
edged with willow and cottonwood,
a great egret
in its motionless hunt for fish.
I left my dog in the car;
he’s had his walk, leash-bound
but electric-focused in every sense
for prey. Now he’s napping.
This is my rest,
senses alert like a dog on-hunt,
for what I don’t know. 

 

 

 

 

APRIL 12, 2025

Dawn
touched pasture gone wild
without sheep, wilder now
with spring, with sky-blue lupine
watercolor-wash this morning’s
dawn. 

 

 

 

 

FANTASTIC?
from Western Forests

Put up a bird feeder anywhere west of the Rockies
some feathered friend will grace you with its visit.
A squirrel has no feathers; tell it to go home to its
oak tree. And ants in squadrons will rappel down
the string that holds a hummingbird feeder—
you can’t stop them. One morning (I’ll admit,
it was eldritch twilight, sun just climbing the Sierra)
I saw an angel swinging from the feeder, wings
spread, fingers holding the edges. At first I took it
for a woodpecker. But dawn music is pure harp. 

 

 

 

 

ON THE GALLERY WALL
framed metal print by Lynell Phillips

It floats in timeless suspension
over an eroding world—
a blue-green globe nested in canopies
of trees, shrubs, grasses,
with what appear to be graceful
city spires
as if lit from within.
No, that’s the glare of gallery lights
reflected off its surface.
Beyond, a sky of indeterminate
hue, puffy white clouds showing their
dark undersides.
It’s titled Peaceful Earth. 

 

 

 

UNEXPECTED GUEST

It’s dark time
outside. Mountain
lion sticks
its head thru
pet-door trying to get in
to visit the pet.

Camera
catches big cat’s head
which is all
that fits thru.
A neighbor has lost eight sheep
in the last two weeks. 

 

 

 

 

SO SOON

Fairground apple trees
white blossoms shedding petals
declare end of spring.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HISTORICAL NO MORE
from Mountain Democrat (4/24/17)
—Taylor Graham

Patrons with heavy equipment came
to eat a large vanity mirror
on the second floor, and a hot spot
for reflection of things that were not.

___________________

So soon… spring is so short here in Northern California; Taylor Graham’s fine photos and poems are capturing it for us before it slips away, and our thanks to her for that. Forms TG has used this week include an Ekphrastic Poem (“On the Gallery Wall”); a Ganta (“April 12, 2025”); a Haiku (“So Soon”); a Borrowed First Line (“Fantastic?”); a Shadorma (“Unexpected Guest”); and a Found Poem using Normative Syllabics (“Historical No More”). “An Unexpected Guest” was a Response Poem for our Seed of the Week by the same name.  The Found Poem was one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges.

In El Dorado County poetry this week, the Arts in Nature Fest takes place in Georgetown this Sunday, and EDC Poet Laureate Stephen Meadows will read in South Lake Tahoe on Wednesday. Also, El Dorado County’s regular workshops are listed on Medusa’s calendar (if you scroll down on http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html/). For more news about such events and about EDC poetry—past (photos!) and future—see Taylor Graham’s Western Slope El Dorado Poetry on Facebook at www.facebook.com/ElDoradoCountyPoetry. Or see Lara Gularte’s Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/groups/382234029968077/. And you can always click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html). Poetry is Gold in El Dorado County!  
 
And now it’s time for…  

FORM FIDDLERS' FRIDAY!

 

It’s time for more contributions from Form Fiddlers, in addition to those sent to us by Taylor Graham! Each Friday, there will be poems posted here from our readers using forms—either ones which were sent to Medusa during the previous week, or whatever else floats through the Kitchen and the perpetually stoned mind of Medusa. If these instructions are vague, it's because they're meant to be. Just fiddle around with some challenges—  Whaddaya got to lose… ? If you send ‘em, I’ll post ‘em! (See Medusa’s Form Finder at the end of this post for resources and for links to poetry terms used in today’s post.)

Check out our recently-refurbed page at the top of Medusa’s Kitchen called, “FORMS! OMG!!!” which expresses some of my (take ‘em or leave 'em) opinions about the use of forms in poetry writing, as well as listing some more resources to help you navigate through Form Quicksand and other ways of poetry. Got any more resources to add to our list? Send them to kathykieth@hotmail.com for the benefit of all man/woman/poetkind!

* * *

 

 

 Last Week’s Ekphrastic Photo

Poets who sent responses to last week’s Ekphrastic photo were Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa:



OLD CASSETTE TAPES
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Interviews of mother’s father,
taped exchanges between
father’s parents and us goofs,
all too scratchy, voices missing,
cassettes worn and talks now lost.
So far, my mind remembers
all the love we shared between us.
But one day, like those
old cassettes, my memories
may be wiped clean.

* * *

QUALITY
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


I was pleased with my reel to reel recorder.
It was four tracks which was good,
as tapes were expensive
but quality was poor

My source of music was the radio,
an ancient transistor
Radio Luxembourg
fading
in and out
with lots of crackles
so quality was poor.

Then the age of affluence
caught up with me.
The reel to reel became an amp
for my boyfriend’s guitar
Now was the age of the cassette,
better quality but at a cost!

* * *

WALK ON
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

How old the Walkman type once scene,
with orange, headphones and cassettes,
technology that passed me by,
as swot in academics, me.
I wondered those who passed me by,
oblivious of all around,
jay walking where no place to be,
but spared by drivers, hoot unheard;
at least the shouldered ghetto blast,
alert, one shell-like, might have heard.
How many, those magnetic strips,
set stuck or crumpled, pencil wound,
a first aid for the damaged tape,
forever after, squeaky themed.

I still hold some in memory bank,
unwilling to abandon tracks,
though youngsters think a foolish hold,
but I’ll not chuck that precious gold,
of protest, Dylan, Baez songs
with Guthrie, Seeger, Prine I heard,
and Simon, Joni Mitchell too,
and Julie Felix, of the tribe.
They represent my seventies,
though gobbledegook when played, I’ve found,
but that was how so much of life
with flower power and Vietnam,
stems planted, barrel of a gun,
street sitting down, Grosvenor Square.

Those days were good, with Woodstock care,
in pilgrimage, President scares,
as I walked rugby boycott lines—
South African, white women scoffed.
I’d pride, anti-apartheid signs,
amongst my fellow Methodists,
though staff from school took a dim view.
Companions of my student years,
imprisoned in Pretoria,
to whom I wrote, their prison cells,
and to their wives, important, more,
spoke gratitude in later years,
as leaders of the church, their day.
Was I a Walkman for the truth?

* * *

DAILY COMMUTE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

In a 6-year span beginning over 4 decades
ago, I would travel from my 2nd-story
apartment in Mar Vista to a 27-story office
building in Miracle Mile to report to work
as a teller at a Savings & Loan

Left my house each morning, walked a
couple blocks to the bus stop, rode the bus
most of the way, then walked the last mile
to work. Reverse for coming home.

I carried a cassette player usually loaded
with Classical favorites, heard privately
over headphones. Each new day I needed
every last bit of power that a full charge
provided, to last me the roughly 2 hours
of one round trip.

* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) has sent us a List Poem:

 

 

  

NOT SO MUCH TROUBLED
—Caschwa

that someone will take my guns away,
but that they will take away:

clean air
Constitutional Rights
duly elected local office holders
safe drinking water
citizenship
right to vote
nation’s adequate defense against hostile foreign
    attacks
good neighbors
the balance of power that has heretofore preserved
    our democracy
    Social Security and other programs that the
    People have faithfully put money into over
    the years
the very blessings that God has bestowed on this land
you name it

* * *

A Nonce from Carl:

 

 

 

 

RHYTHM OF THE WORDS
—Caschwa

Preachers start the call
Harmony to all
Bible, Gospel, Lord of Angels
Organ stirs the hall

~~~

I have seen the worst
Soon become the best
All one needs is strength and courage
Money in your fist

~~~

Changes are the force
Running future’s course
How that works we’ll never conjure
We just tap the source

* * *

And what Carl calls a “silly Haiku”:

 

 

 

Q AND A
—Caschwa

Does no. mean number?
Obviously it does not.
No. no. no. no. no.

* * *

Our Tuesday Seed of the Week is Bugs. Here are two Response Poems about bugs from Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

 

 

MATT OR GLOSS?
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Can fleas jump through the icepack melt,
deep buried matt in polar fur,
or hide, wide in the penguin stir,
caught bubble, air, as water thump?
Working though clumps to find the derm,
then holding on for all their worth,
despite the preening beaks as comb;
not gloss as seals escape the whales,
thick skinned, unsuitable to fleas

* * *

IN VAIN
—Stephen Kingsnorth

Flies like fresh fruit, though past their best,
blood orange, rotten to the core;
yet fleas for flesh, as mashed in mess,
drinking vessels, capillaries,
their platelet dish, corpuscle quiz.
Old fools’ gold from prospectors’ hunch,
in vein, a seam of red from blue.
as stake their claim, rare, bloody hue.
Are chips laid down, accompanied,
salt in the wound to irritate?

* * *

We close with Claire Baker’s fine Double Cinquain about her socks:

 

 

 

MY ANGEL AMID HOLEY SOCKS
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Kneeling
by my darning
needle, she inhales socks
dried under sun & wind, fragrant
cotton

as we
did when mother,
weary, brought laundry in
from backyard line, sun-dried, still warm—
childhood.

__________________

Many thanks to today’s writers for their lively contributions! Wouldn’t you like to join them? All you have to do is send poetry—forms or not—and/or photos and artwork to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post work from all over the world, including that which was previously-published. Just remember: the snakes of Medusa are always hungry!

____________________

TRIPLE-F CHALLENGES!

 

See what you can make of these challenges, and send your results to kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.) Spring is still here—and yet to come, in some areas!—so take on a Florette, with its little “flower” in the middle:

•••Florette: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/essence.html

•••AND/OR a Florette #2:

•••Florette #2: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/florette2.html

•••AND/OR borrow from Taylor Graham’s “Borrowed First Line” form (can be borrowed from anywhere)~

•••Borrowed First Line: Just what it says…

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday’s Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Bugs”.

____________________

MEDUSA’S FORM FINDER: Links to poetry terms mentioned today:

•••Borrowed First Line: Just what it says…
•••Cinquain (Crapsey): poets.org/glossary/cinquain AND/OR www.poewar.com/poetry-in-forms-series-cinquain/. See www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/adelaide-crapsey for info about its inventor, Adelaide Crapsey.
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Florette: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/essence.html
•••Florette #2: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/florette2.html
•••Found Poem: www.writersdigest.com/personal-updates/found-poetry-converting-or-stealing-the-words-of-others AND/OR poets.org/glossary/found-poem
•••Ganta: https://medium.com/@Internationalpoetrynewsletter/modern-ganta-poems-and-how-to-write-ganta-poems-a6b08b655078
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••List Poem: clpe.org.uk/poetryline/poeticforms/list-poem
•••Nonce Poetry Forms: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/nonce-forms-what-they-are-and-how-to-write-them

•••Normative Syllabics: hellopoetry.com/collection/108/normative-syllabic-free-verse AND/OR lewisturco.typepad.com/poetics/normative-syllabic-verse
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Shadorma: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/poets/shadorma-a-highly-addictive-poetic-form-from-spain
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.

__________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

  Today's Ekphrastic Challenge!
 
 Make what you can of today's
picture, and send your poetic results to
kathykieth@hotmail.com/. (No deadline.)

* * *

—Photo Courtesy of Public Domain
 

 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
presents
Celebrating Our Fallen Inspirers
tonight in Sacramento, 7pm.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Life of a Reptile

 —Reptilian Poems by Lynn White,
Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales

—Today's LittleNip by Michael H. Brownstein
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain 

LIZARD

The lizard ran out
quickly.
He sat on a rock
and looked up
slowly
checking the progress
of the sun.
It suited him
so he stayed
and stayed
soaking up the warmth
relaxing.
Relaxed
but alert
only moving when disturbed
by food
or danger
moving quickly then
back
into his hideaway.


(First published in Blognostics, Feb/March 2019)

 

 

 

 

NEWT

I can understand
why
on a hot, hot day,
Lawrence’s snake appeared thirstily
at his water trough.
And why his lizard ran out
onto a rock
to flaunt himself in the sunshine.
But why
on a wet, wet day,
a newt should leave
her splendidly moist habitat
and venture hazardously
into the dry warmth of my kitchen,
that
I cannot understand.
And, of course she couldn’t explain.



(First published in Foxglove, January 2018)

 

 

 

 

TURTLE


Well, my turtle you may be slow
but you get there in the end
determinedly.
And you’ll walk through fire to do it
and survive the flames
and anything else
that the devil
may conjure up
you’ll survive
it.
He won’t ever make soup of you
however hard he tries
you’ll survive.


(First published in Peach Velvet, Tarot, November 2018)

 

 

 

 



BRENDA’S TURTLE


When I was a child,
Brenda’s turtle walked
into the hot, hot embers.
No one knew why.
So badly burned
we thought him ready
for an easeful, sleepy death.
“No, no” said the vet,
“very resilient, turtles,
could live to be a hundred.”

I would like to tell you
that he made the hundred,
but he’s not quite there yet,
though he still seems happy enough.



(First published in Vox Poetic, May 2017)

 

 

 


THE LIZARD

The lizard loves abandoned places.
They make for an exciting life,
so many nooks
and crannies
to seek out
for shelter
or snacks
from the creatures
ill-advised to shelter there.

There’s compost to scrabble through,
rustic brickwork to climb,
even a tightrope to practice balance.
And the sun
shining through it all
to be soaked up with joy.


Such a haven of perfection!



(First published in Spillwords, 8/27/22)

 

 

 

COUPLED

Every year in March
our frogs have a party,
more of an orgy really.
But this year
there were two late comers,
a loving couple
who waited
until after the party was over.
Lily and Henry were their given names
and come the summer
we delighted to see
their offspring
swimming
up and down our pond,
all those tiny Lilys and Henrys
growing ready for next year’s party.



(First published in Spectrum, Summer Love, June 2022)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

IN HONOR OF HOLOCAUST REMEMBRANCE DAY
—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO, USA

too many hollow
costs never wanting to end:
it's time for world peace

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for today’s fine poems about reptiles, and to Michael Brownstein for today’s remembrance.

 

 

 

 

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!