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.
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.
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!
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!
