Of Lions and Lambs

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down to
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by

Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,

Lauren McBride, Mitali Chakravarty,

Caschwa, and Joyce Odam

THE RED CAP

So much depends
on a red cap hanging
from a ceanothus bush

beside the trail—
red winter cap with earmuffs
it gets very cold at night—

who lost it, who picked it up

above a dropoff
where our homeless camp
in better weather

their illegal fires—
so much depends

on the warmth of red
cozying the heart
so far from any home

 

 

 

 

IN THE MEADOW

Here’s a bone—
it’s not known
whose it was,
disjointed
as the grass
lets life pass
by time’s glass
appointed.

 

 

 

 

UNDER COVER
        Sometimes You Can Hear Them Singing
             —Gemma Benton, mixed media

Hints of line and color
not quite obscured by paint—
a pale melding of pastels as over-coat.

Who? what are they, and what is
their song?
Does the artist know?

Shade, tone, form, language of its own,
perceptible to
which of the senses, or the soul?

 

 

 

 Pussy Willows

QUESTIONS OF ECONOMY

Time being money,
is it too expensive to dawdle
along the trail, admiring
how honeysuckle
even in winter, without the sweet
of its flowers,
can hold the cutbank slope
together? and annual-honesty
so lushly vibrant green
when it isn’t even spring?
Should it keep me
from veering off the trail
to look over the edge
down toward the creek
that bears the city’s litter away,
and just above its flood-line,
the homeless camp of someone
for whom the cheapest
shelter was too expensive?

 

 

 

 

ECONOMICS 2025

Is’t too expensive
for a planet’s billionaires
to make earth better?

 

 

 

 

MEETING ROOM

Too much talk.
Think of hawk.
Get up, fly
quietly.
Hear its call,
leave the hall
words and all
joyfully.

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

MARCH KATAUTA
—Taylor Graham

Why does the wind blow?
Change is sure as death, taxes.

___________________

Our thanks to Taylor Graham for today’s fine poetry and photos, ushering in the merry month of March. Around here, we’re all waiting with bated breath to see whether March comes in like a lion or a lamb tomorrow—I’m suspecting the latter, given our weather report. TG reminds us, though, that, even with the lamb, March brings us wind—kite weather!

Forms TG has used this week include two Snam Suads (“Meeting Room” & “In the Meadow”); an Ekphrastic poem (“Under Cover”) from the recent “Atelier on Main Street” exhibition at Switchboard Gallery in Placerville; a Response poem to Katy Brown’s “The Red Chair” (“The Red Cap”); a Senryu (“Economics 2025”); and a Katauta (“March”). “The Red Chair” can be found in Medusa’s Kitchen on 1/20/25 (https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/01/those-wacky-winds-of-warning.html). The Snam Suad was one of last week’s Triple-F Challenges, and “In the Meadow” makes reference to last week’s Ekphrastic Challenge, the colored glass. And TG had some things to say about last week’s Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Too Expensive”. ..

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 these 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 included Lynn White, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, and Lauren McBride:


TREASURE
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales


On each beach they’ve been different,
washed up gently by lapping waves
or thrown by high seas
to a new home.

Pretty shells from a bay in Minorca,
where I swam when the sea was freezing
and the sun bright hot above.

Oysters so decorated with barnacles and wormy
    fossils
they looked as if they had tried to swallow stones.

Smooth sea-glass pebbles from the day-trips
of childhood shining bright like jewels
in every colour I could imagine.

All captured memories now
treasures plated
cordon-bleu
style
here,
in my home.

* * *

BAUBLICIOUS
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

A walk with waves that sing my steps,
I come across an ornament
the sea coughed up, not good to eat.
I pick it up, translucent gold,
an inner shine caught from the sun.
I pocket it, continue on.
Another bauble on the sand, this
one turquoise, shimmering.
A few more steps, and there I find
a pink, a red, a green desire,
all glowing, waiting for my hand.
When I get home, a treasure trove
of colored glass pours from
my clothes, a radiating
pile of bright to decorate
my neck and arms.

* * *

GRAINS OF TRUTH
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Weigh gravel, boulders—pebbles, light,
on balance, in compare it’s right.
though dusted, sand (one, kidney stones?),
they glower, phosphorescence site.
As if a nest egg, phoenix-wise,
but stolen, gathered, prior rise,
their latent flame in pastel tones
tells inner blaze disguises prize.
But fired imagination done,
the artist says she’s had her fun;
it’s paint, asserted, to my groans,
but brighter, imitating sun.
I recognise by lie of shade
the source of brighter, surface laid;
prefer myself, what fancy owns.
How else can fantasy be played?

* * *

GATHERING GLASS
—Lauren McBride, Texas
 
Nestled among round pebbles—
sea-washed scraps of glass
surf-smoothed and frosted,
their former shine and purpose                        
lost and forgotten.                      
Green, white and brown
now stashed in pockets around
colors more rare: turquoise,
pink, two cobalt, one purple;
still seeking red. Pieces plain                              
and unremarkable, but then,
half buried, a bottle bottom.
And just once, a sand-filled vial,
the stopper missing.
These my favorite finds—
fragments ridged or imprinted,
worn letters and numbers
a clue to their origin.
If pieced back together,
what stories could they tell?


(prev. pub. in Songs of Eretz Poetry Review, 1/27/15)


* * *

Lauren also sent us a poem about the dame with the unruly hair:

 

 

 
beside the broken mirror
one strand of Medusa's hair—
a severed snake
 
fangs embedded
in a stone hand
still clutching a sword


—Lsuren McBride

 
(prev. pub. in Scifaikuest, November 2016)


* * *

Here are two Limericks from Mitali Chakravarty, all the way from Singapore! Watch for more poetry from Mitali in the Kitchen tomorrow:

 

 

 

TWO LIMERICKS

—Mitali Chakravarty, Singapore

1
A hen goes—cluck, cluck, cluck.
Holding a feathered pen for luck,
She writes in her flight
Which really lacks in height,
And then she waddles her words to ducks!

2
A llama went for a ride in a car
Wearing shiny garters with one star.
As he stuck his neck out,
People began to shout.
The llama laughed in glee: ‘Har, Har!’

* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) sent us a poem with a 7-letter title, seven lines, and seven syllables per line—a Nonce, it is, based on an old Tuesday Seed of the Week, “Movin’ On”. But I'm declaring it to be a "Triple-7", a new form devised by CS:

 

 

 

COASTAL BEAUTY SHOP
—Caschwa. Sacramento, CA

Waves come in sets of 7,
Curls are more spontaneous
Each nanosecond is a
New permanent, receding
Tides gather energy to
Shatter mirrors, reflect the
Immense charm of the ocean

* * *

 

 Here is a Haiku for March from Carl:

 

OOPS
—Caschwa

thought I heard critters
then saw that it was only
little bits of wind

* * *

And Joyce Odam has sent us a fine Ghazal today, saluting the end of February. Note how neatly each stanza can stand on its own, in keeping with the true Ghazal form:

 

 

 

GHAZAL FOR FEBRUARY
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento, CA

Grief is too much to know.
Time is how long it takes to know it.

Time and its addictions
is also time and its starvations.

All the hungers
know how to wait.

Time is not in waiting,
though waiting is in time.

“And yet,” I say to some malingering
afterthought, “and yet . . . .”

Time, you old ghost,
when have you touched my shoulders?

Time is the last thing to want when
there is no more to want.

Let us hold the moment and slide under
eternity’s pale shadow.

Time when it is precious is time that is
gone. Only the farewell has no echo.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 1/29/13; 7/19/22)

____________________

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.) I'm declaring Carl's Nonce to be a Triple-7; give it a shot:

•••Triple-7 (devised by Carl Schwartz): 7-letter title, seven lines, seven syllables per line

•••AND/OR: write a response to Taylor Graham's Katauta question: Why does the wind blow?

•••Katauta: www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form

•••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 “Spiders”.

____________________

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

•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Ghazal: poets.org/glossary/ghazal AND/OR poetryschool.com/theblog/whats-a-ghaza AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ghazal AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/ghazal.html
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Katauta: www.writersdigest.com/whats-new/katauta-poetic-form
•••Limerick: poets.org/glossary/limerick
•••Nonce Poetry Forms: www.writersdigest.com/editor-blogs/poetic-asides/nonce-forms-what-they-are-and-how-to-write-them

•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Senryu: www.masterclass.com/articles/how-to-write-senryu-poems#quiz-0
•••Snam Suad: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/snam-suad-poetic-forms
•••Triple-7 (devised by Carl Schwartz): 7-letter title, seven lines, seven syllables per line

 
__________________

—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

 
 
 
 
 

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 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!

 

 

Whispers of Winter

 —Poetry by Lynn White, 

Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA 

 

 

AS WINTER FALLS


Willow don’t weep for me.
Back in the summer
I hid in the shadows
of your leafy canopy.
Now you have left me exposed
waiting
for the winter of my content
which falls every year
as the lost leaves
turn golden
then brown
with decay
then white
with the silence
of the first snowfall.
I’m waiting for it
to blanket me with light
and make me smile.
Willow don’t weep for me.



(First published in Sylvia, December 2020)

 

 

 

 

TRANSIENT

Snowflakes lit by sunbeams
blowing gently,
fragile as shadows
making rainbows in the sun.
Smiling in the soft light.
So soft.
So soft.
Catch them quickly in your hair
to melt them
while the sun
is still shining and smiling.
For only as long as it falls,
can the snow renew them
when they melt away.



(First published in Midnight Circus, Winter Issue, 2016)

 

 

 

 

WORN WORDS

The winter chill
froze the words
into remnants.
Tattered pages,
empty envelopes
and empty words
worn and shrivelled
ghosts of our love
that I try to forget
and try not to forget.


(First published in Fresh Words, March 2023)

 

 

 

 

SNOWMAN

We rolled the snow to make a jolly body
to the soundtrack of your cascade of laughter.
And as we did, a couple walked by,
she said “hello,” like her joy was blowing
    bubbles.
She gave us a pipe to put in his mouth,
but he could blow no bubbles from it,
which was a shame.
But with his jaunty hat
and bright scarf
he mirrored her joy and your laughter
as he stood on his icy dais,
before both of you
melted away.



(First published in Breadcrumbs Magazine, 2018)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WINTER’S TALE

—Lynn White


Slowly at first
almost imperceptibly
the days become shorter
minute by minute
as winter whispers
her arrival once again.
Listen carefully
but take care.
Soon you will cover your ears
as she learns to shout.


(First published in Brave and Reckless, 12/14/21)

___________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for her fine poetry in celebration of winter, and to Joe Nolan for finding us lovely winter pix to go with it!

 

 

 

 Ice Horse
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Mary Mackey will be reading
at CSUS in Sacramento today, 2pm.
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!
seasons/snow/w/snowman

 

 




 

 

 

 

 

Tableaux Daydreams

₀

 —Poetry by H. K. G. Lowery,
Newcastle upon Tyne, UK
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

DEPARTURES

losing CO2 in the Jet2 queue,


staining Carhartt with heartache, 


barcodes beep & promises pall



 

between staff & sightseers 


& parents cheering up children 


& new lovers arriving

chinos & eyes empty


into a grey tray, passing 


Saint Peter with an automatic

& cutting through pictureless clouds


to arrivals, you were waiting,


& you opened your arms, like wings

 

 

 

 

VILLA DIODATI

like a leaf, you were ambered,
acquiescent, ambling the grounds—
gravel crunched with Converse
& a tableaux daydream:
Byron sailing, or the Shelleys
in love—& then, the villa doors
unveiled untouched antiques
& portraits eyeing every word
like the porcelain it was spoken over —
& sobering outside, ringtones
revealed Omicron will part you,
for months or more, before
the sun left for another city,
& the stars began to emerge
with the shyness of spiders

 

 

 

 

GENEVIÈVE

there you were: star-crossed
                      

                        & stark, nipping the neck
               of Calvinus, flicking Winstons from
                          windowsill,
                              scribbled MA sonnets
                     & scrunched love letters smothered
                                              under feet & frown,
                                        Twelve Carat Toothache
                                     cutting the silence,
            your rib cage crushing, lungs
                                heaving in the June heatwave
               with undiagnosed pneumonia
                                  & pleural effusion,
                                 coughing blood
                            & wheezing cheater

 

 

 

 

 LIGHT YEARS

 

another spin around the sun, & since, 

I’ve learnt that every mirror needs light: 

if light is c = 1/(e0m0)1/2 = 2.998 X 

108m/s (James Clerk Maxwell, circa 

1864), it’s the magnetism keeping us 

close—if light is electromagnetic 

radiation (Wikipedia), it’s the life of

moths—if light is a wave, it's scattering 

most from our hearts of silvered sand 

& limestone—if light is The Dark Side 

of the Moon (1973), then it’s you re-

fracting all my colours—& if light is a 

distance, it’s always between us, 

because I have realised there is not a 

greater love poem than a blank piece 

of paper, or the cursor, blinking for us 

to begin, reflecting me in the screen 

where you have been waiting for

light years 

 

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.

—Og Mandino

____________________

Newcomer H. K. G. (Harry) Lowery is a writer from Newcastle upon Tyne. He graduated from Lancaster University with an MA in Creative Writing (Distinction), where he was honoured to win the 2021/2022 Portfolio Prize for achieving the highest mark in the faculty. He has also just recently returned home from teaching English in Seoul, South Korea. Welcome to the Kitchen, Harry, and don’t be a stranger!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Harry Lowery

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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 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!

 

 

 

Shadows That Grow Too Loud

Tribute 

—Original Artwork by Joyce Odam

—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA

 

 

OLD MAN LOOKING AT FRUIT
—Joyce Odam

old man
looking at fruit

(pears and peaches and cantaloupe)

in the grocery window

(nectarines and apricots and
the sweet grapes)

the old man’s eyes are as filmy
as saliva

(strawberries, blackberries,
raspberries)

his hands shake
his pockets have no money

(oranges and tangerines
and the yellow apples)

the old man’s hunger
is on his face
like a hate

(honeydew, casaba,
Persian melon)

words he can almost
taste

(pomegranates, plums, bananas)

                                
(prev. pub. in Jeopardy, 1971; Lemon Center for 

Hot Buttered Roll (chapbook by Joyce Odam), 1975; 

and Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/6/10; 12/22/15; 10/5/21)

 

 

 

Looking Back

CLOSET MUSING
—Joyce Odam

There’s my good black dress
way at the back
covered with a blouse.
Why keep it?  It’s so old.
It doesn’t fit. Its shoulders
have a permanent crease
where it has hung for years.
Dry cleaning is not practical
for my life style. I don’t know
anyone who’d want it,
though it cost a pretty penny
in its day.     Is that why
I always give in at the last
to some nostalgic whim
and leave it hanging,
hard to reach
in back of everything?
I used to wear it dancing
with my rhinestones
and my black high heels.
Look at it now, all crushed
and filled with dust.
Pathetic! Next time
I gather stuff to give away
I think I’ll give it up.
I’ll never wear it anywhere.
Oh, mirror, look
at these arms, these hips.


(prev. pub. in Poets’ Forum Magazine, Sept. 1996,
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/5/15)

 

 

 

 From Whence We Came

 

dreaming in the dream
distance far away from here
closeness on the heels

ever since the faraway
ever cast the runes of shade

           —Robin Gale Odam

 

 

 

 Singular

 

ONLY CHILD
—Joyce Odam

After CD Jacket, girl with butterfly and two birds

Your hands are too small
to hold all that you desire.
The live butterfly
caught in your hair
will not love you for long.

The tethered swallow
you keep on a string
will escape
back to the wall paper.

The beautifully feathered bird
you hold on a stick
will lose its will to fly away.

You are too innocent for such power—
to keep all that life as yours,
to possess and try to tame—
standing there in all your defiance,
as if you dare not believe me.
                                            

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/20/17) 

 

 

 

Golden

 

I LOVE THE LIE
—Joyce Odam

Darling, I love the lie upon your silken
mouth, your abstract kiss,
the practiced way you mold your syllables.

And I love the way you dwindle into pout
that I must coax with my own kiss
when you must pout me to your way.

And, Darling, I do believe the things you say,
though I watch your eyes, the way you
somehow twist in slight response

and fix your charm
upon me once again with one more lie
of love,   love,   love.

          
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/13/18; 2/12/19;
8/20/24) 

 

 

 

Sabbatical

 

SHADOWS THAT GROW TOO LOUD
—Joyce Odam

Though you repeated what you said, I made
no sense of it. I heard only your voice, the
tone of it, going on and on in some reverie
or question; the way it did not matter if I
listened. You left me finally. Or I left you.
The silence hung thickly in an after-echo.

I wonder what life means to you now?  
Surely you tell of your love affair with
rain, with haunted light, with your deploring.
And now I answer you from a glassy room
of words that break like figurines; like shadows
that grow too loud; like flailing moths in mirrors.

                                                    
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/2/21)

 

 

 

 Promises

 

field of olden blooms
perfume sighing over graves
promises to keep

            —Robin Gale Odam 

(prev. pub. in Brevities, May 2017;  
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/23/24) 

 

 

 

Day Of Rest

LIGHT, BURNING THROUGH
—Joyce Odam

It was too much light; I could see everything;
the room swarmed with it, though my eyes

remained closed. My eyelids were too thin.
The light burned through to my trance—this

was not real. I was without power to move
or cry out. I was without power. The light

came down and touched me—traced me
for its knowing of me, as if I were a memory.

Then the dark came back. How much time
had passed? Why was the room so cold?  

It was love, I said, though I felt empty.
The room was shuddering, then went still—

still and heavy. The light fell over me like
a great exhaustion, which I could not explain.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/26/19)

 

 

 

Of The Blues

 

  

MISFORTUNE
—Joyce Odam

After “Misfortune” by Luis Cernuda

Misfortune—that old hag, her gleaming presence,
what she wears to introduce herself, those semi-
precious birds she keeps on risky pedestals, the
charming echoes they have learned.

What does she want of me, I’ve nothing more to
lose or give. I’ve paid my dues to her demands—
those lies she told—those mis-directions that she
gave when she was all cajole and promise.

But now that I see her true face in her own mirror,
I all but lose my nerve : her costume in rags, her
makeup ruined. She turns to me again—this time
contrite—and once again I ask her to save me.

                                                                                                                                    

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/3/19; 9/29/20; 

8/30/22)

 

 

 

The Bridge

 

EPHEMERA TIME KEEPER 

—Robin Gale Odam
 
Now the wolves all look like sheep,
here the keeper at the turn of the hour
with crystalline salt for the trails of tears—

now the bell chime, the allusion of words,
the herald of wind for the meaningless flight,
the rise of a moon to a starless night.

                                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen, 4/25/23) 

 

 

 

Another Way

 

 

WHAT THE BIRD TOLD ME
—Joyce Odam

when it flew so near,
when it brushed my hair,
when it held my eyes

when it framed the air with its wings
and it heard my cry
from the numbness of my mind

and I raised my hand
for it to rest upon
but it had no need

so I held it with my breath
and it almost touched my face
and I did not move or fear

it was the pain,
and the bird told me
to tell the pain to go away

we were mind to mind
with no one near
to say I lied

to say how the bird
took all the darkness
that I could not love, and could not say

                                     

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/24/19; 8/20/24)

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TOO SOON
—Joyce Odam

This broken sunshine
fitting my hand like nerves . . .
Oh, Light, why have I touched you?
I was wrong to leave the dark.

___________________

 

Joyce and Robin Gale Odam mull over the cost of things today, and our thanks to them for their wonderful poetry and Joyce's fine photos! Our new Seed of the Week is “Spiders”. 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.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 —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.

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Too Expensive? Never!

 —Illustration by Nolcha Fox (with Microsoft Designer)

* * *

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

 

 

TOO MUCH
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

You shower me with jewels and furs,
perfumes, and trips to paradise.
Your love is just a gilded cage
to keep me prisoner.
Your love is too expensive,
I cannot pay the price.
And so this bird escaped,
flew back to coffee shops
and sales racks and
travel on TV.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE PRICE OF PRETENDING
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

skipped the Prom
no close girlfriend
no limo
no exquisite flowers
no royal titles
no magic

impossible to slip into
the costume of the entitled
rent a tux
dinner that gobbles up your cash
dancing out of step
and how do you follow that?
no, not me

given that much spending money
I’d rather buy and play vinyl records
get a new diamond needle
bigger, better speakers
that would keep me occupied for
quite a few evenings, not just one

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

A MEANS TO NO END
—Caschwa

his mind gathers up
data, a human vacuum
cleaner, spits out dust 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

HOW IT WORKS
—Caschwa

seven decades in the past
I followed the Kid’s Code
got up, had breakfast,
got dressed, went to school

my parents, following the old
“This will help you in the long run”
Code, felt this had the worth of gold
didn’t want their kid to be a fool

the state, following the “to expand
power, wield it now” Code, formally
mandated school attendance if/and
when families had second thoughts

it happened to be a grammar school,
that was even in their name, and they
taught us kids every grammar rule
until we were insane

now that I am a senior citizen, retired,
and finished with going to school, the
new normal uses minds rewired
“don’t you dare get caught using adverbs!”

no wonder people just don’t trust our
governmental institutions, who choose
what rules we are to follow, but cower
over heeding those rules themselves. 

 

 

 

 Another way to play online~

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

IT’S ONLY A NAME
—Caschwa

Choices (a previous MK Seed of the Week)

I filled in as sub for an elementary teacher
who had a long name starting with “G” and
who let the class just call him Mr. G. Decided
to follow that and let the class call me Mr. S,
as some struggled to say my last name. That
won me some points with the kids.

Used to be active playing slide trombone, and
came to meet and practice with other musicians,
who addressed me as Carl. There was an
accomplished piano player named Carl, who
preferred his middle name Ed, along with a
dedicated rock & roll guitar player named Ed,
who preferred his middle name Nick. Names or
notes, we harmonized. 

 

 

 

 Wode Hills
—Drawing by Freya Pickard

On 2/19, Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) wrote: "Totally enjoyed . . . poetry and photos by Freya Pickard [MK, 2/19/25]. Her drawing of Wode Hills led me to write an Ekphrastic response." Freya wrote to say that "the post that includes Carl's poem will appear on 7th March at [her blog] https://dragonscaleclippings.wordpress.com/." Here is Carl's poem about Wode Hills:


PAR FOUR
—Caschwa

here it is, ladies and gentlemen, the
perfect inspiration for designing a
difficult golf course: hillocks abound,
staged in every way imaginable that
nature could act to leave things the
opposite of flat. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

MOSCOW AND BERLIN
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

“Achtung!” sneezed a Nazi,
Marching down a street,
The weather,
Rather chilly—
He forgot to warm his feet.

Mukluks for the
Russian winter
Would have been more wise
Than heading north
Sans winter gear.
Bitter cold
Should come as no surprise.

It lay in wait for Napoleon
When he left Moscow
Behind,
Only, though,
October,
Flurries drifted in,
Swirling around
His freezing troops.
Far fewer,
There were,
When he reached
Berlin.

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

“HONEY, I’M HOME!”
—Joe Nolan

When I look into a crowd
I see swarms of eggs
Impacted by some sperm,
Briefly, thus acquainted,

Giving birth
To love and ashes,
To brief attempts to rail
Against the sky
And to survive.

To be alive,
Repaying promise,
Of life from lust
All of which arise
From basic instinct
To burst through a membrane
Shouting,
“Honey, I’m home!”

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

 

FRISKY WHISKERS
—Joe Nolan

If you were a cat
I’d call you “Frisky-Whiskers,”

Whiskers streaming
From your cheeks
Above a curving smile
All lined up
Above a
Scratching tongue,
A gentle, urging
Playful tone
With which you
Read your poems,
Very entertaining.

 

 

 

Bambina Peruviana con Lama
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

DELAY THE INEVITABLE
—Joe Nolan

Why not delay
The inevitable,
At least for
One more day?

There is a time for leaving,
But it need not be today.

Omens and prophecies
Foretell of times so dire
Were we to bear them
On our backs
We’d soon grow dreadful-tired,
So let us live
In just this day
And thrive
While still alive.

Let there be
A space for breathing,
Time for kids to play
And if need be,
Let us pray—
Time will spare us
One more day.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

THE LIGHTNESS OF IMMORTALITY
—Joe Nolan

You must have been doing something
Before you took this incarnation.
What was it,
Can you recall?

Maybe with hypnotic
Past-life regression
You might find a clue
Or learn it all?
Surely, if before,
Also, after.
Fill your heart with laughter.

Things for you to do
Will be set forth,
Spread out on a table,
Ready for you to take on
As soon as you are able,
But first a little rest
In a gentle Heaven.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A SPIN-OFF FROM
TOO EXPENSIVE
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

May each
sensitive-as-moonlight
person-in-progress
continue to
spread an aura
everywhere
they roam
from their journey
to become
fully
expansive
in their good works
for others.

____________________

—Medusa, with many thanks to today’s contributors! Our Seed of the Week was “Too Expensive”. Be sure to check each Tuesday for the new Seed of the Week.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center
features an open mic at 7:30pm
 based on the themes of yesterday’s
panel at SPC. 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!

 

 Nothing is too expensive for
LittleSnake…