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.
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!
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!
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!