Sunday, February 09, 2025

Life Advice From Dead Poets

 —Poetry by Richard LeDue, Norway House
Manitoba, Canada
—Public Domain Photos
 


BIRTH FORGOTTEN AND
DEATH UNKNOWN

My days snap and crack now
like branches that aren't even
attractive to dogs anymore,
while those more concerned
about photocopiers and emails
talk over me getting old,
and some are so enthralled by their own voices,
their words are as embarrassing
as being middle-aged
and caught naked with someone
they never loved,
yet they'll never see their own bareness
dressed in their work clothes,
until they retire and hear the silence
calling out someone else's name.
 
 
 


ROSES AT THE SUPERMARKET

Too many poems are in love
with faces they never name,
with eyes that saw the poet
as part of a passing background
and inevitably got lost in a fog,
only to realize they have cataracts.

Even the word “love” is failing
the vision test so many take for granted,
while the wide-eyed become blinded
by being left trapped in photos
abandoned in a shoe box
at the bottom of a closet.

And yes, I have bought roses
at the supermarket,
thinking thorns needed just days
to fall away, or at least dull
like the colours in an old flag
for a country that no longer exists,
although we all once loved it.
 
 
 
 

WHEN WHISKEY HAD ALL THE ANSWERS

Some people prefer laughing
at the way you used to drink
spilled beer from an ashtray,
rather than point out
how you haven't had a cigarette
in over six months
and managed to mute
the two whisky bottles
hidden in the bottom of the closet—
remnants from ice cracking
Friday nights, when whisky
had all the answers,
only for you to wake up
one morning,
curled like a question mark
no one noticed.
 
 
 


AN OVERPRICED APPLE TREE

I shouldn't feed this grudge,
but it still slithers around in me
years later, like a snake
searching for an apple tree,
only to swallow a dead egg,
and I know I've been poisoned
for too long, but any antidote
has expired, leaving me
with a hatred, bloated with lies
I tell myself and anyone who'll listen
about how I'm fine.
 
 
 


Eight years between cataract surgeries

isn't much of a story
as it should be,
and the eye doctor is greyer,
but so am I,
leaving fresh snow to shine
like the greatest fool's gold,
while we accept winter is inevitable
until it isn't.

The promise of greater clarity
making me muddled,
as if a prayer to a god
who created farsightedness
just to prove he was close,
yet I still stare out my window,
hoping to see something.
 
 
 
 

WHILE NAKED LOVERS TRY
THEIR DAMNEDEST

Some smiles are like roses
from a secret admirer,
resurrecting the sort of excitement
someone doesn't realize died
just from living:
a death knell among unsaid hellos.

While other smiles are dull
as Sunday nights
clipping out coupons
with the precision of a person
who has no one
to complain to about the price of tuna,
leaving all the naked lovers alone
to try their damnedest to prove
silence is wrong.
 
 
 

 
AS QUESTIONS DIE IN OUR SLEEP

Most don't understand we all have to die
to live, and that if you become a drunk
because you took life advice from a dead poet,
that's your fault, and that drinking
isn't a hammer, but a nail that makes Christ
bleed, and we all know what
his blood is, so maybe growing old
isn't a defeat but a surrender:
conquered by picket fences,
while capitulating with a career
that pays you by taking its reparations,
only for history to reassure us
there was never any other way.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

As you get older three things happen. The first is your memory goes, and I can't remember the other two.

―Norman Wisdom

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Richard LeDue for today’s fine poetry!
 
 
 

 























A reminder that
Wakamatsu Workshop will meet
today in Placerville; and
Lara Gularte will read at
The Salt Mine in Lincoln, 3pm.
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!
 

 







































Saturday, February 08, 2025

Who Brought Me Here?

 —Poetry by Shailja Sharma, Ph.D., Chicago, IL
—Public Domain Photos
 
 
TOOTHBRUSH
 
I see you in
my toothbrush
clearing off
tartar on my emotion
and plaque in my thinking
with the smooth
touch of your eyes
Reaching each
nook and cranny
of body and mind
Purging the
germs gathered
from daily living
I am being purified
by the passing
of each breath
coming from the sky
The cosmos has
your touch
Just like the
Toothbrush


(prev. pub. in Literary Revelations, USA, 2023)
 
 
 
 
 
WILD NIGHT
 
Night's wild locks are open
Stars are like bedazzling hairpins
Tucking them in
But youthful night will end
Into a clear day
Clear of mystery
Clear of night’s beauty and charm
Naked to stark reality
The day is like death
Will stand and stare through
No matter how much the sky
Sparks all night


(prev. pub. in Literary Revelations, USA, 2023)
 
 
 

 
MY STORY IS BEING TOLD
 
the warmth of her lap
nested my being
in her body’s texture and fold
a story remained untold
the wrinkle around her eye
held my sky
the pores on her face
bled into the ink on my page
her legs itched
her elbow cried through scratchy years
in my tears
her silver hair shined wisely
on my skin
her brow was thick
like her blood running in my vein
she had fingers of many kind
but the one I remember holding
is still mine
grandmother is long gone
but her warm lap nests my being
in her body’s texture and fold
my story is being told

(prev. pub. in The Lothlorian Journal, USA,
November, 2024)
 
 
 
 
 
 
ESCAPE


mind seeks comfort 

remembering old times and

grandmother’s food

looking for old hinges to 

hang new jackets or surplus thoughts

failing to wrap around

the present moment

mind wandered elsewhere

when grandmother’s food was sitting

right at the table

always looking to escape

what is, for that, which is not, 

which never was the way

it wanted it to be, and 

will never be, because

the ocean of reality cannot fit

in a small bubble of mind

can mind accept the moment

as is, rather than trying to escape it?

 
(prev. pub. in Cultural Reverence, India,
June 2024)
 
 
 

 
 Today’s LittleNip:

THE BEE
—Shailja Sharma
 
Capsuled in the tulip flower
The bee asked herself
“Who brought me here?”
And then she said
She was like the deer
Who looked for scent everywhere
To find it inside its own body
The echo of her own longing
Brought the bee there
The lava of her melting heart
Traveled her to places
Where no one could be
She created her own paths
With her own obstacles
And then questioned the petals
Of the innocent tulip flower
“Who brought me here?”


(prev. pub. in Cultural Reverence
, India, 2023)

___________________

Shailja Sharma, Ph.D., USA, is a mental health provider and a widely published author. Apart from scholarly publication and editorial service, her literary writings have been internationally acclaimed; her publications have appeared in numerous literary journals/forums of repute across the USA, Canada, UK, and Asia; and her writings have appeared in #1 Best Selling anthologies published nationally and internationally.
Dr. Sharma has also been awarded literary honors for her writing contributions in international languages. Welcome to the Kitchen, Shailja, and don’t be a stranger!

____________________

—Medusa
 
 
 

 


















A reminder that
Mosaic of Voices features
Joe Nolan and Kevin Walton
in Lodi today, 2pm;
Sacramento Poetry Alliance presents
Jeanne Allred and Sarah Pape today, 4pm;
and Sacramento Poetry Center presents
Bill Carr: Liquid Juice 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!
 

 

















 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Friday, February 07, 2025

Shadow of Green

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Caschwa, and Claire J. Baker
 
 
MAKING SENSE OF IT

This morning I take to the trail with
chaos of the brain and fabric of
our lives eating away at the hard-trod-
den ground beneath me. The trail laughs at
me, its dead leaves on their way to com-
post rotting to feed generations
of leaves which it becomes in time. I
take everything to and from the trail.
 
 
 


MUSINGS IN THE RAIN

Immersed in winter green along the trail,
I hardly notice this morning’s light rain.
My dog and I are the only walkers.
No birdsong from the ravine, secret dark
wildness in midst of city, its trees cloaked
in ivy escaped from nearby backyards.
What I notice today is rock—small slate
fallen on the paved trail, a mini land-
slide down a cutbank which delicate ferns
try to hold together. I didn’t know
we’d had so much rain in sporadic storm.
The soil must be supersaturated,
yet they say we’re still in drought. Immersion
is such a sometimes thing, bone-dry & then
atmospheric river and back again,
our wildland fire season all year long.
 
 
 
 

SHADOW OF GREEN

Our daily walks take us along the railroad,
to public parks, and thru old Gold Rush towns,
the rotation system random, by whim
and circumstance. What if yellow barrier tape
blocks a trailhead? My dog and I go
somewhere else. That day we were walking
downtown when Otis suddenly pulled me
toward a shady green alcove trellised with vine—
a narrow gate. I peered through lattice
and saw the foot of a back staircase shining
white in midst of shadowy dark.
Who might use those stairs? Did someone live
up there? My dog stood pensive, waiting
for me to open the gate. Who opens gates
from mere curiosity? I still wonder
what my dog might have showed me.
 
 
 
 

GETTING THERE

Tree fallen
on rusty rails where
no train runs
anymore—
on muddy side-path run prints
of boots, paws, and hooves.
 
 
 
 

DRIVING THE MET
    Mormon Emigrant Trail 3 years after fire

How winter softens everything
with white, those black silhouettes of trees
against pale lavender-pink-gold promise
of sunrise over distant mountains.

From where we stand
to the far horizon,

earth is robed in snow and those
leafless needle-less black tree trunks,
charred branches eloquent
as hands and fingers signing without words.
 
 
 

 
INHALING THE NEWS

Before dawn my laptop gives me the news:
plane crash, soldiers and figure skaters dead.
Insurgents marching against another
government. But a hundred years ago
sled dogs and their mushers braved a blizzard
to save a town from the “strangling angel”
diphtheria. Siberian sled dogs—
maybe ancestors of my rescue dog,
Otis! And suddenly he’s nudging me
in the ribs, me sitting with my laptop
that spews communicable diseases—
grief and fear of our world. Now he’s on his
back on the floor, offering his tummy
to rub, the furry-warm familiar scent
of live dog against the strangling angel,
world news. Stand up & move. It’s almost dawn.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

QUEEN OF THE NIGHT
—Taylor Graham   

close her call

cold as snow strike
penetrating
winter black night

her talon grip on life

small creatures crouch
buried in earth
their safe burrows

she flings her flight

one glimpse
by moonlight silent she
passes us by

_________________

Today Taylor Graham takes us with her and Otis up and down the Sierra foothills as they struggle to return from fires. Thanks to TG and Otis for today’s tales of the hills in the rain.

Forms TG has used this week include some Normative Syllabics (“Making Sense of It”); a Shadorma (“Getting There”); some Blank Verse (“Inhaling the News” & “Musings in the Rain”); a response to Medusa's Ekphrastic Photo last week (“Driving the MET”); and a Response Poem (which is also a Split Sequence, with random words) to last week’s Queen of the Night Triple-F Challenge. “Shadow of Green” is in response to our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week: Down the back staircase.

In El Dorado County’s poetry events this week, Taylor Graham and Katy Brown will facilitate another Wakamatsu Workshop in Placerville this Sunday (depending on the weather, of cours) and El Dorado County Poet Laureate Emeritus Lara Gularte will read in Lincoln this Sunday, 3pm. Plus, 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 include Nolcha Fox, and Stephen Kingsnorth:



STANDING TALL
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

No matter snow or ice
or baking summer heat,
no matter winds
of spring and fall
that tear off yearly leaves,
no matter pecking
birds and bugs
that penetrate their bark,
the soldier trees
stand tall and strong,
a line of warriors
nature grew to teach
us whiny human beings
that we can persevere.

* * *

CUSTODIANS
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

I see the trees in fore snow ground—
though three would mind me, rising son—
but four reminds of wider lore,
the Greenman resting, passing on?
Beneath the blanket, under ground,
talk mycorrhiza, worldwide web,
seeds stratified, souls hibernate,
skeletal bark where freezing bites.

Before pinetum, ever green,
deciduous, for now undressed,
or are they ghosts, rose tint on white,
or rather wights, bear hint of shades?
The past now present, though be passed
a complement to living on,
while phloem and xylem, wizened source,
in spite, death sentence overcome.

Who serve as guardians of the wood,
thought dead but living, rooted well?
And undercover, secretly,
the cycle turns, regenerates,
by leaf or needle, auxin prompt,
the ground lies, laid awaiting draw,
despite the witness, eye for I,
a photo- synthesis replies.

So long as, pace stayed, human kind
remain in place, shared partnership,
our master, carbon capture race,
may lead us all in gracious ways.
Custodians of all, as all,
wellbeing, primary in call,
or will ambition steal our rôle,
and lead withal catastrophe?

* * *

Here is a Nonce poem by Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) in the form of axa/bxb/cxc/dxd/exe. It’s based on our current Tuesday Seed of the Week, Frustration:
 
 
 
 
CAN’T REMEMBER
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

I have worked with machines
that faithfully record all the
data presented to them by any means

and with people who undeniably possess
photographic memory, perfect recall without
any effort, struggle, or mess

having said that, I need to find a way
to communicate to people that my memory is
no more than a rough draft, too light to weigh

everyone involved will be soundly disappointed
if they regard the things I write
as being heavenly anointed

so it frustrates me to no end when I am compared
to perfection as if my memory serves all but me,
spreading thoughts and ideas that weren’t meant
to be shared

* * *

And here is a Cinquain from Claire Baker for our resident artist, Sam the Snake Man. Her poem is also based on our current Tuesday Seed of the Week, Frustration:
 
 
Snake in a twist by Sam the Snake Man


QUESTION TO SAM,
THE SNAKE MAN**
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

Do snakes
get frustrated
unwinding endless coils,
cranky with the boring task, so
bare fangs?


**For Sam, Medusa’s
fine artist, with humor


____________________

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.) Get out your abacus and alternate 12s and 14s for some Poulters’ Measures:

•••Poulters’ Measure: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/education/glossary/poulters-measure

•••AND/OR need to get something off your chest? How about writing a Complaint:

•••Complaint: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/education/glossary/complaint/. Write a Complaint poem using the word, “clinquant”.

•••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 “Frustration”.

____________________

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

•••Blank Verse:
literarydevices.net/blank-verse AND/OR www.masterclass.com/articles/poetry-101-what-is-the-difference-between-blank-verse-and-free-verse#quiz-0
•••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.
•••Complaint: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/education/glossary/complaint
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••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
•••Poulters’ Measure: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/education/glossary/poulters-measure
•••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
•••Split Sequence: http://www.hsa-haiku.org/frogpond/2022-issue45-1/essay.html
 
__________________

—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!
 
 Next Friday is . . .

 

































 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Thursday, February 06, 2025

Children of Humankind, Most Dear

 
—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth,
Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth and Joe Nolan

 
 
45200—OLD GLORY

That haggard man—his Okie played,
me in the States, from Leftie slate,
so sympathetic, draft card burn—
as teen saw napalm, ’Nam girl run
as naked, flame, scene black and white.

Strap ‘Kill a Commie for Christ’, line,
those hosting me, Kentucky hills;
Nixon resigned—they cried that night—
no LSD trips, shaggy hair,
beads or sandals—Old Glory flown.

Like livin’ right and bein’ free,
the place where squares could have a ball,
so Merle sang words, echoed their thoughts
in Country Western tones with chords
that pulled their heartfelt strings withal.

As youngster raised in boxcar home,
his father died, and working class
was reform school where learnt more crime,
then gambling, brewing, San Quentin,
until Cash concert changed his life.

His passing stopgap trading ways—
short order cook, well shooter, oil
hay pitcher, and truck driver, spuds—
that gravel voice, not stopped, deployed,
till friends, good fortune brought his stage.

Few knew his record, inside times,
till Ronald Reagan pardoned crimes—
for he expressed inchoate fears,
returning soldiers, with their stance,
uneducated U.S. mass.

The sound was good, roused audience,
and though he sang against my creed,
I yet hear what was played back then
in parkland trailer where I stayed—
heard gaolbird, four five two, two noughts. 
 
 
 
 

IRON HORSE

No bucking bronco, rodeo,
who stables this dark iron horse?
However glorious its past,
de-railed, awaiting knacker’s yard,
its prospects found in steel surround,
more fool’s gold if once held in awe,
its wheels at point that none foresaw.

Its loco, stock, carriage awaits
green flag, a final whistle sound,
but both unseen, unheard indeed,
this heavy metal, denser riffs,
unbridled strength, full crusty neck,
but whither been now wither slack?
A final journey, waiting track.
 
 
 

 
PACIFIC: ‘PEACEFUL IN INTENT’
    
The summit, wall, lounge gallery,
selected postings, our display—
a celebration carvery,
this feasting on knives, knavery.
It’s not the image for today,
gun-toting, Iwo Jima style,
while red flags rising everyway
in city streets, full blades, shivs, shanks.

Those rays emerging, sign of sun.
another setting, point sharp swords,
but I would counter culture wars,
pacific isle in sea of gore.
But console now is in control,
as pixels die before our eyes,
destruction being mode of thought
as enemies to sort, sought out.

And as A.I. itself unleashed,
perhaps its bidding will suffice
to turn from screen, to terrorise,
the eve, destruction, final set.
Passed forty, Nineteen Eighty-Four,
we foresee doom before its time,
but I am glad, in dotage time,
a seventh age in which to mule.

Here’s warfare through word history;
turn bayonets to Bayou nets,
and like the Bayeaux tapestry,
leave battles fought as needlework.
I can do only little acts
of kindness, brave new stranger world,
but from my bed, spread candlewick,
a pin of light ’gainst dark surround.
 
 
 


CHOSEN CALL

Beside the dead, it’s living still,
and knowing killed had mothers too,
their nurture, breast, in common, so
their mind and soul grown in their soil—
as yours, but which the greater soiled?
For every soldier’s demon haunts
with tempting taunts and question marks,
for both themselves, adversary,
claim God as ally on their side,
as executed battle plan.

Await that one last blast before
the ceasefire known temporary,
for common too their ‘chosen’ call,
that landfill, rubble soon the tribe,
a race to make habitable,
but which race to inhabit it?

The olives, fig trees, feelings too
for homeland of their ancient soil;
though watered by blood, sweat and toil,
these killing fields wish fruit to yield;
where watermelons for peace could
drink from the price of history,
seed future not from ceded land,
but milk and honey, nature shared,
the human state where two found bound.
 
 
 
 
 
FRIEND OR STRANGER

How can we write of witness when
it is the heart, receiving it;
that springs the wells, though lids resist,
a rolling pearl, trace gentle line.
An act of kindness is not staged,
no script, performance, makeup, props;
the only prompt, a scene of need,
and we now cast, not audience.
Benevolence, unkind to ear,
for institutions, saving cash,
the credit union, interest—
much less than winsome, heart-touched feel.
It’s as farewell, kind task well done,
by quiver shake or hug indeed,
composure falls about the words,
as friend or stranger take their leave.
 
____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

WINNING WAYS
—Stephen Kingsnorth

It is as treating others due
as we would have our treatment too,
except forensic, balanced weigh
cannot be formulaic way
but mind and heart combined to see,
the second journey mile to be.
Our species, kin, can claim a stance,
a standout quality as class,
initiating, beyond norms,
a charity which life transforms.
To know a kindred spirit here,
a child of humankind, most dear,
but priceless for earth’s family—
for if our race to win, the key.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for today’s fine poetry and pix~
 
 
 
 —Public Domain Cartoon Courtesy of 
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

















 
 
 
 
 
 
 
A reminder that
Poetry Night Reading Series
in Davis will feature a
Wide-Open Mic tonight, 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!
 

 

















 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Wednesday, February 05, 2025

Cherry Blossoms & Bone Crackers

 —Fifteen Untitled Haiku, Senryu and Gendai
by Robert Beveridge, Akron, OH
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
 
 
chilly autumn rain
rolls into my collar: scent
of rotting apples

* * *

condolences flat
against the pavement: wildfire
moves closer to Weed

* * *

almond joy deer smells first snow in the air
 
 
 
 

ten minutes of rain
tarmac steam gives rise to shadows

* * *

train roars above
me
       Septembersummer bank
of nameless lake

* * *

inked face on one side,
carved on the other: oven
roasts the salted guts
 
 
 
 

rock turned over
the invisible holes
of the ants’ nest

* * *

two swallows quibble
in an ocean of red dust:
fat worm camouflage

* * *

cherry blossoms…
wind blows discarded
mask down the street
 
 
 
 

summer morning
the lake sings mist
my lungs answer

* * *

bone crackers:
between his teeth
the sleepy eel

* * *

geese return to pond
toddler throws bread, expects fish
April thieves honk
 
 
 


acres plowed, donkey
stops to rest in April sun
the corn will be sweet

* * *

Michaelmas summer
rain drips from orchid leaves
bitter cherries

* * *

november rain in september sky

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The only problem
with Haiku is that you just
get started and then

—Roger McGough

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Robert Beveridge for his fine exercises in brevity today!
 
 
 
 ". . . two swallows quibble . . ."

















 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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!
 
The corn will be sweet . . .












 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Tuesday, February 04, 2025

Spiral, Ever Spiral

 
To Dance
* * *
—Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Original Artwork and Photos by Joyce Odam
 
 
THE POET BEFORE SUNUP
—Robin Gale Odam

The child would collect books at
Every chance, pouring through the
Pages and guarding the angst of all the
Times of wishing she could say goodbye,

Of moving once again, of selecting
Only one or two—and maybe the skates,

Or the doll—so as to fit everything
Important onto the back seat of the old
Car and then turn the corner and vanish
Before sunup.
 
 
 
Full Awake
      
     
There once was a girl

who stared all night through the shining rain,
through ways she would go
and the ways she came

through room after room of shudder shawls,
up flights of stairs, down one-way halls,
past swaying lights on closing walls.

She lay on the shafts of memory
and felt her body lift and fade
and felt herself become opaque.

Dark light shone through and found her soul,
made of thought and made of sorrow
now she can haunt herself again,

mark the night
with sleepless praying,
watch the window of her life

open,
open into being,
where sleep will enter to her name.


—Joyce Odam
 
 
 
Back to Sleep


HUSH
—Joyce Odam

Now in the dream of the bed, on the raft of night,
the child remembers the slowness of the day—
the quietness of the mother, the rustlings in the 
other room. The bed floats on the dark fear. The 
child lies beside the mother and tries to sleep. 
The mother whispers to the child . . .

Now in the memory of the dream, in the dream
of the raft, which tries to float out of the room
and down the stair; out of the day, which has
lengthened from night; out of the dream, which
tries to release her—the chance is exciting, but
the walls impede . . .

Now in the dream of the mother which tries to
release the child from the fear—from the raft—
from the rustlings of the other room, from the
whispering, comes the secret door of instruction :
Be patient.  Be quiet.  Be still.  Tomorrow
we will leave here.


(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/23/21) 
 
 
 
 Gathering


RESEMBLING A DREAM
—Robin Gale Odam
After
The Surrealists by Bridget Tichenor, 1956

the children
the ones who came along
clothed in remnants of clouds
singing hymns of darkest hours

fixed in our memory and singing

singing memories of darkest hours
clothed in remnants of clouds
the ones who ushered us
the children 
 
 
 
 Visiting

                     
THE ANGEL OF COMMON DESPAIR
—Joyce Odam

Oh,
Angel—
pensive as stone—
 
shadowless
against a muted wall,
the winter light surrounding you,

your massive wings at rest—
how lost you seem—how without power
to persuade or frighten

—just another figure caught
in some
indecisive moment.

How pale you are
against the cathedral dark—
ghost in tragic stance,

one foot upon the stair as if to enter
—saddened there
as though some Love has befallen you.
                                       

(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/10/13; 8/31/21)
 
 
 
To A Day Dream


SPIRAL STAIRCASE
—Joyce Odam

          spiral
      ever spiral
   ceiling height
 viral
if fear
of heights
or breath
deprival
what
dizzy urge
what
altitudinal
denial
does one confront
 with such an endless
  staircase
    spiral
       ever spiral
 
 
 
To The Park


FAME, DESCENDING A STAIRCASE
—Joyce Odam
After
Art Descending a Staircase
by Elaine B. Rothwell

When we disguised ourselves we were not old.
We were famous. Runways loved us.

We had many roles with many lovers.
We floated on admiration.

We put on mask after mask,
obeying the instructions of their faces.

It was a long walk between curtains.
But we were tireless.

Spotlights followed us.
Our costumes told their own stories,

how we were the creation of
famous artists and photographers.

Again and again our youth comes brimming back
to our mirrors, shining ever so darkly.

Even now, we tell of this like conspirators :
that the art of love is what love is made of.

                                                       
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 2/2/10) 
 
 
 
 Where Did He Go?


PASSING
—Joyce Odam

ah,
    yes,
        you cry,
            into the
                revolving
                    world.  the
                        door opens.
                            a vast sky
                             swallows you.
                            you are dead .
                        you turn to say
                    this to me.
                you sift and
            disappear.
        I sit on the
    stair and
weep. 
 
 
 
 For a Walk


NOT DATED
—Robin Gale Odam

I’m going to go take a walk through the
mystery—I’ll be back in a long while.


(prev. pub. in
Brevities, Nov.-Dec. 2020;  
and Medusa’s Kitchen, 12/13/22)
 
 
 
 Me To Know


MOTHER, I HAVE LEARNED
—Joyce Odam

Mother, I have learned how to hide.
I know where the shadows are.
I know where the light
shifts past.

I know how eyes
will follow such stealth as ours.
I have learned to tear evidence
of our existence.

I have learned to creep down
stairs in silence.
I have learned to stay silent
behind doors.

I have learned to veil the face
of all emotion.
I have learned that tears
are the confessions of fear—

that danger is always disguised
in the gentlest of eyes—
that no one loves us for long.
I have learned to leave

at a moment’s notice;
to go into the soft closing air
of disappearance, leaving only
a burning-dish full of wet ashes.

                                     
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/24/23)
 
 
 
 Wandering Thoughts


STAIRCASE WITH CONJURED FIGURES
—Joyce Odam

And now, these long stairs—this last poem—the
    lovers halfway down, their shadows falling
        ahead

of them. The stairs are as wide as two distances,
    there is no top or bottom to them, they are
        merely
    
steps toward a metaphor. What is the metaphor !
    What must I discern from this : two lovers
       moving
      
down the stairs without a sign of apprehension.
    Why am I afraid for them? The stairs are half-
        toned

with shadow and dull sunlight, rock texture in
    relief; and they, themselves, diminished against
        the length

and width of this stair-path that is so steep, with
    no one else going up or down. They are so
        trusting of

these lines that writes them there. How long it 
    takes to reach to one stone from another, the 
        same slow

motion that is felt in waiting for what one can 
    never face. I make them mysterious. I give 
        them choice,

a way to alter fate’s design : they are halfway up  
    and halfway down : time to go on, time to turn 
        around.

                                                                 
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 10/23/18)


___________________

Today’s LittleNip:

RITUALS
—Joyce Odam   

For all things willing
and all things sad
I lay this small gift
beside the empty place.
.
I bring in my basket of
prayers.
Take one, I say to everyone
till it is empty.
.
Ever so softly
for it is night
and everyone is sleeping
I go up and down the stairs with
my lullaby and candle.

       
(prev. pub. in
California State Poetry Society
Quarterly
, 1975; The Dividing Self [mini-book],
1989; and Medusa’s Kitchen, 4/3/12; 6/5/12)


___________________

“Down the back staircase” is our Seed of the Week which Joyce and Robin Gale Odam have so gracefully written about today, and many thanks to them for that and for visuals supplied  by Joyce. 
 
Our new Seed of the Week is “Frustration”. 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
 
 
 
Los Surrealistas (The Surrealists)
—Bridget Tichenor








 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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!
 
“. . . youth comes brimming back
to our mirrors . . .”