Jefferson City, MO
—Public Domain Photos
—Public Domain Photos
WAITING FOR BREAKFAST
a lighthouse within the bedroom of marsupials,
rosemary finches, penguin-faced
men glorified by the boundaries of palm,
a designation of line, a value assay:
the lunch line, life line curving downward,
line of Horace fading away, heart line frag-
mented,
head line, line of stability--the line near the
bus stop,
a block away from the theater's grand
entrance.
Then there is the sigh, the open-mouthed
grab of air,
the churn of acid, the weakening of cartridge,
a need to replace a knuckle, regrow a finger-
nail,
somehow somewhere we lose who we were
not meant to be.
a lighthouse within the bedroom of marsupials,
rosemary finches, penguin-faced
men glorified by the boundaries of palm,
a designation of line, a value assay:
the lunch line, life line curving downward,
line of Horace fading away, heart line frag-
mented,
head line, line of stability--the line near the
bus stop,
a block away from the theater's grand
entrance.
Then there is the sigh, the open-mouthed
grab of air,
the churn of acid, the weakening of cartridge,
a need to replace a knuckle, regrow a finger-
nail,
somehow somewhere we lose who we were
not meant to be.
WHERE HAVE THE LIGHTNING BUGS GONE
AND A PERSONAL TRAINER IS NOT
AN OPTION
The muscle-bound sky
cloud-shot, blood-worn,
and my friend with rabid eyes,
a slur of lips,
everyday chews fresh sugar cane
with perfect teeth.
Some of the time he speaks for the two of us,
other times a very private man.
Everywhere contours of blue,
graying heat,
sheet lightning.
We walk to his huge ox,
he picks up a hundred-pound bale,
nods to me—
I divide mine in two.
In the distance
the slow flex of another grand summer storm
winding towards us
laughing.
AN OPTION
The muscle-bound sky
cloud-shot, blood-worn,
and my friend with rabid eyes,
a slur of lips,
everyday chews fresh sugar cane
with perfect teeth.
Some of the time he speaks for the two of us,
other times a very private man.
Everywhere contours of blue,
graying heat,
sheet lightning.
We walk to his huge ox,
he picks up a hundred-pound bale,
nods to me—
I divide mine in two.
In the distance
the slow flex of another grand summer storm
winding towards us
laughing.
JACK FROST SLEEPS WITH GOLDILOCKS
Cold sleeps in the room with Beauty
rearranging itself into frost giants and lumber-
jacks.
Snow White is still in development,
and Loki—well, he’s already a myth.
This I know: Beauty sleeps under twenty
blankets
and always feels the pinch of the pea—grows
her hair
long enough to cut, and cuts it—carries fresh
meat pies
through the forest to lure wolves to their death,
to skin them—and when she falls asleep in her
brass bed,
the cold remains, unremitting, a poisoned apple,
a hundred year sleep, a broken glass slipper
Humpty Dumptied into so many pieces
no prince in love wants to glue it back together
again.
DYSAUTONOMIA
I could not even pronounce the word,
the dog unable to feel pain in its back legs,
her tail no longer able to move
and when we brought water to her,
we had to put her mouth into the bowl.
Later pools of yellow urine spouted from her mouth
and she sighed a terrible bark, but not a bark,
a moan of terror perhaps, a loosening of the soul,
and she let out more bile.
When we called her by name, no response,
when we set her down, no response,
when we petted her, no response.
She seeped into unconsciousness
the onset so quick and brutal,
the gagging sounds from her stomach
filled the air at her throat and she sat
not comprehending anything at all.
Thirteen pounds when we got her,
under ten in the animal hospital,
not a single one of us held onto her
when the needle put her under
and she was no longer in pain.
I could not even pronounce the word,
the dog unable to feel pain in its back legs,
her tail no longer able to move
and when we brought water to her,
we had to put her mouth into the bowl.
Later pools of yellow urine spouted from her mouth
and she sighed a terrible bark, but not a bark,
a moan of terror perhaps, a loosening of the soul,
and she let out more bile.
When we called her by name, no response,
when we set her down, no response,
when we petted her, no response.
She seeped into unconsciousness
the onset so quick and brutal,
the gagging sounds from her stomach
filled the air at her throat and she sat
not comprehending anything at all.
Thirteen pounds when we got her,
under ten in the animal hospital,
not a single one of us held onto her
when the needle put her under
and she was no longer in pain.
AND THEN—
every now
another
spark
against
back
ground
a gauge
with
in
deformity
the growth
of
hair
balls
flower
of rose
mary
every now
another
spark
against
back
ground
a gauge
with
in
deformity
the growth
of
hair
balls
flower
of rose
mary
THEN CAME ANOTHER DAY
The eighth day, well rested,
the miracle of universe complete,
the dark dung of darkness
and sad light cleansed and organized.
Forgive us our moment
when all prayer becomes short stories,
shell shock inability to listen
to vibrations of silence,
people wading into the brakes of words—
the sharp shark shard of vowels
and their choking curves,
consonants threading into a grand forest choir
each stitch a slip in the wrong direction.
Forgive us our greed
and simple idiocy, our lists,
our tears in flesh
and psyche, our anger, our augers,
our metal plates, forgive us
for taking the deeds
holding the great desk together,
forgive us the robberies
of paper and light,
of organization and disbelief,
forgive us for stealing purity
in psalm and purity in image,
forgive us for every
nine day week after week,
forgive us for forgetting
where we are, where we come from,
where we belong, forgive us
the miracle of rest.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SHADOWS IN THE LIGHT
—Michael H. Brownstein
in the shade, Bashō's
ghost sings its praise to blue skies—
wind imagery
* * *
THE WORLD FELL ON FLAT FEET
—Michael H. Brownstein
a bone of lime
and still
I smell poetry's fragility
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s fine poetry!
The eighth day, well rested,
the miracle of universe complete,
the dark dung of darkness
and sad light cleansed and organized.
Forgive us our moment
when all prayer becomes short stories,
shell shock inability to listen
to vibrations of silence,
people wading into the brakes of words—
the sharp shark shard of vowels
and their choking curves,
consonants threading into a grand forest choir
each stitch a slip in the wrong direction.
Forgive us our greed
and simple idiocy, our lists,
our tears in flesh
and psyche, our anger, our augers,
our metal plates, forgive us
for taking the deeds
holding the great desk together,
forgive us the robberies
of paper and light,
of organization and disbelief,
forgive us for stealing purity
in psalm and purity in image,
forgive us for every
nine day week after week,
forgive us for forgetting
where we are, where we come from,
where we belong, forgive us
the miracle of rest.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
SHADOWS IN THE LIGHT
—Michael H. Brownstein
in the shade, Bashō's
ghost sings its praise to blue skies—
wind imagery
* * *
THE WORLD FELL ON FLAT FEET
—Michael H. Brownstein
a bone of lime
and still
I smell poetry's fragility
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Michael Brownstein for today’s fine poetry!
A reminder that today is
the MoSt Poetry Festival
in Turlock; and
Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair’s
workshop meets in Lodi, 11am.
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!
the MoSt Poetry Festival
in Turlock; and
Nancy Gonzalez St. Clair’s
workshop meets in Lodi, 11am.
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!
