Running On Empty

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa
* * *
—Poetry by Nolcha Fox, Claire J. Baker, 

Joe Nolan, Stephen Kingsnorth, 

Caschwa, and
Michael H. Brownstein
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Joe Nolan and Medusa

 

 

DAD’S DONE
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Know no one at all
suspects Dad is tired of
being in charge.

Being in charge
doesn’t give him a charge.
He’s running on empty.

He’s running on empty.
He longs to return to younger days
when he hadn’t a care in the world.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

ULTIMATUM, 2
   Spring 2025
—Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA

We won’t be Bully-Buddies’ prey,
though gas tanks drain & fill to empty.
In waxing wiser, here to stay,
we’re not the Bully-Buddies’ prey:
government castration? Hey,
when millions pain, contempt on thee.
We won’t be Bully-Buddies’ prey,
though gas-tanks drain & fill to empty. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

QUASI-BROTHERS
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Because they claimed to be brothers
They spoke from the heart and blood
With the full force of an avalanche
In waves of facts, knowledge and wisdom,
As much as could be conveyed
In simple, declarative sentences,
But it proved too much, in the end,
As one chose his separate truth,
His own space for reflection,
Over their common bond.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

BUYER’S REMORSE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Now I feel spent, child-minding day,
those ice creams dripping, blazing sun,
while mopping clothes, their face, my brow
for fear of what their Mum will say,
though next the promised visit, zoo,
sad looking apes to antelope.

I bought their tickets, ‘Tiergarten’,
saw tigers pacing, confined space,
so thought that money better dealt
supporting native sanctuaries,
eyes watching wildness on TV
as burning bright in forest nights.

Bought plums and pears, too ripe I fear,
soon smeared as mush on faces cleaned,
hot chocolate, such crazy choice,
their lips burnt, whimper, ice again;
emotion’s cost real price I paid,
good fortune drained, unlucky ways.

Next duty shifted, wholesale mart,
bulk buying for the village fête,
but under layer, sparkling fruit,
found discreet metal there secrete,
its weight destroying surplus’ taste,
so wait again for payback mode.

Display within shop window frame
is not an offer; courtly rules;
mere invitation to respond,
to make said offer (in UK)—
to canvas what is laid before.
till such is purchased at the till.

Are we too eager, outlay cash,
too flush with stash to care too much,
too ready to accept spin sold,
too trusting as the seller’s mark,
too greedy to interrogate,
our interest in profit’s take?

Possession, nine tenths of the law,
as generated fantasy
a dominating sales technique—
that painted nag, sold ‘stallion’;
wolves in sheep’s clothing scatter flock
as readies banked, scammers’ accounts.

It gnaws away, as rue the day,
I flashed the cash, invested stock,
a south sea bubble came my way,
that fool’s gold, end of rainbow pot;
we fools, our money, separate.
Remorse is unrepenting, world. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Illustration Courtesy of Medusa

DEEP & EMPTY POCKETS
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

when I was in high school there were several
classmates who came from families with
money: Real Estate, New Car Sales, City
Council, and other prosperous endeavors;
apparently they were running the show when I
was in school and they will remain there
indefinitely

some years back I thought I would attend my
high school’s Home Coming Game; thought I
would be recognized as one of the musicians
who regularly played at Pep Rallies and games;

they wanted me to pay full price to enter this
“Homecoming” and expected I would donate
generously to support multiple programs at
the school;

your money is welcome here, stranger

somewhere in cold storage is that old notion of
“click your heels 3 times, there’s no place like
home!” now at the front door with all kinds of
glitter appear many layers of marketing schemes
all designed to draw in more money to be sent to
the very top of the pyramid;

No thanks

I will continue to meet my dear friends from public
school on social media (I have known at least 3 for
over 70 years), enjoy the ease and rewards of a
lifelong career as an unpaid poet, and let the
Homecoming Game Fundraiser Event continue to
belong to those whose incomes are far above mine. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

MYSTERY NEIGHBORS
—Caschwa

(On our previous Seed of the Week,
New Neighbors)

I have new neighbors
the houses on each side of mine
had been rentals, but now one
has sold to new owners
(not prior renters)
and I haven’t met them yet

Thus I will refrain from advancing
any opinions or suppositions
as to the appearance and behavior
of these folks

For the last 16 years the rental
house on the other side has been
occupied by a wonderful family
with laughing kids, etc.

These neighbors have a Mimosa
which puts out fragrant, red blooms
to which my wife was allergic, and
they were so kind as to trim it back
to protect her

They are black and I am white, and
we meet and hug when a family
member passes

So the bar is set very, very high for
my new, mystery neighbors and for
myself as well, as after the passing
of my wife I have tended to be a
loner by choice

Time will tell

 

 

 

—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

BEFORE & AFTER
—Caschwa

California used to proudly have a strong
law enforcement presence on the streets
in which live suspects would be apprehended,
booked, sometimes convicted and sent to
prison, notably the Department of Corrections
& Rehabilitation (CDCR), where they could
serve time for their crimes while being
presented with opportunities to correct their
errant behavior, rehabilitate themselves, and
eventually become positive, contributing
members of the community

And then came the shocking, summary
execution of young Stephon Clark for the
high crimes of breaking car windows and
holding a cell phone

Forget about all that pride and the possible
positive outcomes, the whole law enforcement
scheme including the CDCR had now become
the California Department of Chase & Ravage,
its philosophy inspired by the single, deadly
act of an invincible jungle cat Catching
& Devouring its prey, leaving empty our more
ethical and sophisticated hopes that some
prisoners might favorably embrace correction
and rehabilitation 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

OUR ECONOMY
—Joe Nolan

Toward a bigger,
Fatter, squealing pig
On which we all shall feed.
God forbid

The pig
Should shrink,
Once our forks
Have been set in!

We mustn’t let
Our hungry hordes
Be forced
To walk away,
Unfilled

With greasy fat
And juicy meat
For which
All of them came.

Grow, grow—
The only way
We can go
With our economy.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

KISSING HEARTS
—Joe Nolan

A heart kisses—
Rushing out
Through shining eyes
And smiles.

It catches on
And smiles
Are returned.

Kissing hearts
Shine like
Little suns,
Warming everyone.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

When they strangled the words from free speech
Took the gathering in protest to camps
Froze out the right to write an honest opinion—
What is left of who and why we are?

—Michael H. Brownstein, Jefferson City, MO

____________________

Our thanks to today’s fine contributors with their potpourri of subjects! Clearly, no one was running on “empty”, our Seed of the Week, with their fine riffs on same.

A note that SnakePal Michael Brownstein has a new book out from The Camel Saloon Books on Blog, entitled Firestorm: A Rendering of Torah. For info, see
https://booksonblogtm.blogspot.com/2012/10/firestorm-rendering-of-torah.ht/.  Congratulations, Michael!

____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Oops. Busted.
—Public Domain Artwork Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Sacramento Poetry Center will hold
an all-open mic tonight, 7:30pm,

 as everyone gears up for  

Poetry Month, starting Tuesday.
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!

 

Running on empty . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Studies in Blue

 —Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta, Saffron Walden
(near Cambridge), UK
—Delphinium Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

STUDIES in BLUE 

 

THAT PERFECT BLUE

Tiny petals of forget-me-nots 

are blown like blue confetti
across the summer lawn.
The endless blue of the sky
is caught in these small dots.
As if minute chips of enamel
have dropped from heaven,
pure in form and colour,
fragile, transient samples
of that perfection that hovers
just out of our reach

 

 

 

 

THE BAY OF BENGAL

Breakers roll towards
wet, smooth sand.
Sari-clad figures, red. tangerine
green, bob at the edge
where the frothing lace
tongues of the waves
lick up the burning beach.
Hawkers with giant conches,
strings of glowing beads,
wander among sun bathers
buying, bargaining, bartering.
Through the clearest of water,
I look at my feet
wooed by the pull of the tide,
my footprints quickly fill,
obliterated, wiped smooth,
washed away into vacancy,
kidnapped by the vast blueness
of the sea.
The local nulias in fishermen’s,
triangular, plaited caps,
stand guard by swimmers
against sudden side currents. 

 

 

 

 

BLUE SPLENDOR

Delphiniums, tall, stately,
Gracious Queens of the summer border
Blue spikes reaching skyward
Challenging the endless blue above.
While the lesser courtiers:
Cornflowers, bluebells, hyacinths
Bow and sway beneath. 

 

 

 

 

BLUE HILLS

Far distant, blue hills of childhood
hover still on the edge of memory.
Summits hidden in autumn fog,
in winter snow in deep drifts,
white pillows of long- lost dreams.
Spring skies of enamelled blue;
where ageless lambs still skip,
summer fields are ever green.

Deep blue shadows of twilight,
linger still in the old birch wood.
Patches of memory, moonlit meadows,
dark rings of enchantment,
fairies are dancing,
where the mushrooms explode
in tiny atomic clouds
like bursts of memory

 

 

 

 

BLUE NILE

Blue Nile
running lazily between banks
through rocky gorges
boats flit like butterflies
sails billow in bright sunlight

Thread of blue
watery silk embroidering its way
through the desert
completing the tapestry
in shades of turquoise and indigo

Ancient waterway
flooding the arid landscape
life-enabling
golden hoard for a Pharoah
precious corn in Egypt

 

 

 

BUILDING SANDCASTLES IN 1945
Grey Sea—Blue Mood

(First time on a beach in UK at the end
of World War II)

We built sandcastles to a notional plan
drawbridges, moats, towers, turrets
a sky grey with scudding clouds
green strips of curly seaweed,
mermaids’ hair, artistically trailed
over buttresses and walls of sand.
Empty coffins of pink shells
pressed delicately into battlements.

We squatted in swimming costumes
made from old jumpers, wet and soggy.
In a cold east wind, running into
a grey, sullen, North Sea,
with leaky buckets to replenish
an ever- thirsty moat of sand.
Gritty sandwiches clutched in one hand
we fortified our fragile defences.

Bright coloured, wooden spades,
our weapons against a threatening sea.
Inevitable surrender after a watery siege
as lizard tongues of foam lick sandy walls.
We jump in self-destructive frenzy,
crazy, destroying our own creation.
Spitfires fly low.
The grey waves
finish the demolition.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

In age of consumerism and materialism, I traffic in blue sky and colored air.

—James Turrell

____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Sarah Das Gupta for her fine poetry today!

 

 

 

Those perfect forget-me-nots!

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Minstrel, Continue to Sing

 —Poetry by Ivan Pozzoni, Monza, Italy
—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

BORN BACKWARDS

Why do I keep writing?
B., like Bangladesh, was
sixteen years old, on the windowsill
of the balcony of a Milanese high school,
but sixteen years was not enough
For God to embrace her in his leap.
R., as Romania, was
thirteen years old, feeling a hundred,
and no angel
was flying by her side.
E., as Ecuador, was
thirteen years old, with no Genoa
reminded her of Quito,
in the solitude of her dress
off-brand, disintegrated.
C., like China, was
twelve years old, worn out quickly,
looking out on a balcony
with the desire not to see the world,
throwing herself into the vortex
of performance anxiety.
Their names are not difficult
to forget, they are names
—like me—born in reverse,
pressed against the glass
of the windows of life
jumping to the asphalt.

 

 

 

 

MUM, I AM AN AUTISTIC

Mum, i’m an autistic, not a municipal transport
    company autistic
i know in your mother’s heart you always dreamed
    of settling down as a state employee,
without the worry of a time card to punch and
    unemployment
doing eighteen hours a week, three months off, with
    the anxiety of defiscalising repetition.

Ma, i am an autistic, bad luck has decided to crown,
    me, as a writer
no, ma, i don’t write therapeutic remedies, no
    invoice, like the doctor,
i have explained to you a hundred times that i deal
    in endiads and alliterations
i dialogue, every night, with ghosts and communi-
    cate with martians,
and, by now, like the Villa, no ma, not the baker    
    of via Mentana
i mix latin, dialect and the average italian as a
    seasoned courtesan.

Ma, i’m autistic, i speak in distich, or in anapestic,
but go on, you understand, it’s not like i’ve become
    spastic,
at most flexible and elastic, says so even the troika,
thrown into life with a rocket like i was Laika,
victim of the artistic environment’s lack of
    communication
nailed, backwards, on my cenotaph the epitaph:
    “Here lies an autistic man”,
since no one can catch me in any verse
or ma, don’t bother me, i’m a deviant.

 

 

 

 

THE FORGOTTEN CHILDREN'S PARADISE

Forgotten children's paradise,
there play dead children asleep
in hot cars, without relief,
victims of mnemonic crises from work fatigue
that make them forget budgets, meetings or
    certificates.

Little girls play in a relentless summer,
indifferent to the sun that has dehydrated them,
free to soar in tides of air
in spite of the bad moments spent in respiratory
    crisis,
without having to feel heat and thirst.

Forgotten children's paradise,
dead children asleep play there
strangled by the insecurity of belts,
eagerly waiting to re-embrace, without rancour,
those who murdered them.

 

 

 

 

CARMINA NON DANT DAMEN

The story of a coin is of no interest to anyone
two sides never so bold to see each other face to
    face
on one side imprinted the effigy of a queen,
austere, draped in silks and thirsty of drapery,
on the other the image of a minstrel, clad in a
    mantle of earth,
surrounded by the golden sadness of war songs.

The enchantment of love turns into coin
two hands, arranged one with care and other
    artisanship,
shake hands, and two faces, two metic eyes
protrude from the copper reliefs,
keeping alive, embraced, suspended in the void,
the one observing the amenity of a realm
where rivers run free, flowers smile,
clothed in forests and fruit forever,
the other gazing into hell.

My art is powerless
to cast spells so influential
to keep two faces timelessly suspended in the void,
mixing in forge the two worlds
into a single world where minstrel
and austere queen harmonise thoroughly.

Minstrel, continue to sing
your useless song with a broken heart,
waiting for fragments of tears
to flow again
in the blood of a halved love.

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Your intuition knows what to write, so get out of the way.

—Ray Bradbury

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Ivan Pozzoni for his fine poetry today!

 

 

 

Ivan Pozioni

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poppies Are Here!

 Poppies Soon the hills will be alive with

the orange  that is California poppies!

* * *
—Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth,
Melissa Lemay, and Caschwa

 

 

MARKING THE SPOT

Close my eyes, let my hand waver, hover
over the map. My finger is a hawk
diving into green labyrinths of ridge
and canyon; red lines fine as spider’s web.
Over this great expanse of wild earth, where
does my finger land? in Leek Springs Valley.
I know that place. Cosumnes headwater,
meadow dropping into pine-fir forest.
A pond for our dogs to swim & fetch sticks.
I still visit since the Caldor Fire, Otis
finds patches of snow to dance on.
In the meadow, a grave marked with rock
& dog toys—a dog lover’s loss and solace.
And in the burn scar, under black trees
standing dead, more green conifer saplings
than I could count.

____________________

HOME DÉCOR
    “The Weirdest Items Found by the TSA”
            – Daily Passport

I avoid flying commercial, and I never flew
out of Juneau—unlike the airline passenger who
collected moose droppings “to give to politicians
whose policies he disagreed with.” I admired
the ungulates’ offerings. In fact, I couldn’t resist
those big bold beautiful shiny black pellets
for moss-and-lichen arrangements on driftwood,
salvaged from spruce woods behind our house.
My arrangements were works of art. Visitors
commented on them, never mentioning the odor
of moose droppings. 

 

 

 

 

STILL LIFE ON THE TRAIL

Ceanothus in white bloom—
Gray & aqua daypack—
Dark pink flower on tall stem—
Journal splayed open
Its title: Happiness Day By Day—
Page torn from journal—
Page on page ripped loose
Left like a trail of footprints
Like blips of heartbeats down the trail—
Woodfern among cutbank rocks—
One dead gray squirrel—
Honeysuckle holding the slope together.

 

 

 

 

ADOPTING THE HOMELESS

My rescue-dog friend kept guilting me
for all my years with dogs purebred—
that breed of canine is sure not free!

At last I saw her point. It had to be
some homeless mutt I’d save instead
of my rescue friend still guilting me.

I chose his eyes on internet—a plea
I had to answer (with hope & dread).
That kind of canine is sure not free

of problems I could not foresee.
I brought him home. It must be said,
my rescue friend stopped guilting me.

Otis is tall & strong, with wild esprit.
On trails I wear hardhat for my head—
that kind of canine is sure not free

of mishap—& work-pad for each knee.
His tail a plume, his prance wing-spread.
My rescue friend’s not guilting him or me.
My kind of canine: smart, & wild & free.

 

 

 

 

NOT A PENNY

We looked like a couple of bag ladies, pushcart
crammed with well-worn zipper jackets, satchels
of white & carbon paper, water bottles, and two
antiquated manual portable typewriters,
as we trudged to a folding table & chairs on Main
Street. I guess we were listed on a data-base
for the festival, but we had something to set us
apart: typewriters and poetry.
I envisioned someone asking for a nature poem.
And, it being mid-March, on the spot I’d write
about wild mustard flowering, and a Wood Duck
drake taking flight across a pond, and his mate
brooding her eggs in a nest box high in a willow
at water’s edge.
Someone would walk away proudly bearing
a poem composed on request, typos X’d out to
prove its real-time spontaneity, its authenticity.
A poem gift. No money in a bag. Our poems
free as the air we breathe.

 

 

 

 

BACK DECK NEIGHBORHOOD

Is it a new neighbor, or just the old familiars—
2 wild turkey hens, one brown, one gray—
who left a poop, black with white accents,
on our back deck, where songbirds cluster,
bluster, nudge the crowd asunder at the feeders?
It’s a big-bird poop. Is the new neighbor
turkey or goose or someone rarer?
We welcome all races and trust
they’ll get along together so everyone’s fed.

 

 

 

 

Today’s LittleNip:

NATURE OLD & NEW
—Taylor Graham

A giant’s doily   
laid on greening forest floor—
old lace and leaf buds

_______________________

Tales of emerging spring (and poop!) today from Taylor Graham, and our thanks to her for fine poetry and pix! Forms she has used include some Blank Verse (“Marking the Spot”); a List Poem (“Still Life on the Trail”); a Villanelle (“Adopting the Homeless”); a Word-Can Poem (“Not a Penny”); and a Haiku (“Nature Old & New”). Her “Back Deck Neighborhood is a response to our recent Tuesday Seed of the Week, “New Neighborhood”. “Marking the Spot” came from an Internet prompt to close your eyes, put your finger down on a map, and write about that place. “Home Decor” is from an Internet prompt to write about a weird or funny.

This coming Tuesday (April 1! Wow!), Cameron Park Library Writers Workshop’s Spring Reading and Open Mic presents Susie Kaufman and Joe Walsh at the CP Library, 5:30pm. And 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 such 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 Joe Nolan, Nolcha Fox, Stephen Kingsnorth, Melissa Lemay, and Caschwa:


EXTRA CUPPA
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

An extra cup of coffee or tea?

Who’s it for?

Surely not the kitty.

A picture of contentment
With chocolates strewn about.

But that second cup of coffee
Is a mystery.

Was it a departure
Or arrival, yet to come?

Someone there,
Offstage,
Portends a new adventure?

Or time to relax,
Now that he’s gone?

* * *

NO MORE ROOM
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Our princess dogs own everything.
Especially if it’s warm.
The dogs are blobs on sunlit deck,
and let us share the comfy chairs
in front of the TV.
They’re first on top of our queen bed.
When we want our nightly zzzzs,
the dogs are stretched to fill the space.
We only get a corner.

* * *

HAIR RAISING
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

This busy more-than living room
must grapple with time management,
for volumes spoken by caffeine,
capacity to reckon with.
She nurses one cupped in the hands,
but what for coffee table stance—
a second for the later clock
or last one, cold and counted out?

With calorific chocolate chunks,
devices spread for tablecloth,
as pads for writing, typing, queue,
rest pillowed, half a dozen times.
At least no dog to lead away,
but fluffy rug, tailed toy, the cat,
adrenalin not fight but flight
away from work to rest awhile.

A doze spill-wastes another drink—
I’m tempted, say, another mug;
is work-life balance underway,
or this more psychiatric couch?
Does writing block show work complete,
or empty page as muse deserts?
Pink flowers cower, off site plant,
a hidden corner, blooms, despite,

That ruffled cloth I like the best,
holding folds of writhing snake,
its hue the same, settee, surrounds,
the seams defined, that rumpled too.
Had this seen crime, forensic clues
would be abundant in its weave,
much material evidence,
as fabric condition, tales revealed.

Cloth textures, shapes and shades refined—
this artist handles brushwork well,
sees folds, bold stripes clearly designed,
that comfort cushion, belly hugged.
Confronted, schism, split screen splayed—
to fore laid toil, while laze behind—
but two thirds latter stratified
which seems proportionate in view.

* * *

it’s a cat! it’s a plane!
—Melissa Lemay, Lancaster, PA

a cozy scene,
a smiling woman
surrounded by pillows,
she holds a cup of coffee

she has tablets
and pens and chocolate bars
and another cup of coffee
just in case

there is a vase of flowers
on the coffee table

but the thing
i can’t stop looking at
is the melted lump of cat
in front of her
at the edge of the sofa

does she know it’s there?
is it a cat? pillow? stuffed animal?

* * *

A SESTINA ABOUT NEIGHBORS
—Melissa Lemay

Every day I hear my neighbor upstairs yelling,
cursing at their three-year-old son,
with words that hurt my ears.
I wish these walls weren’t paper thin.
I know the downstairs neighbors
share my sentiments.

Apartment living, not for the faint of heart, a very true
sentiment—
I hear banging and stomping from upstairs, and yelling.
The people who live below, those neighbors
are horribly mean, at least to my family. My son
does his best to stay away. He can be thin-
skinned; sometimes worries over things he hears.

Every other week they are breaking up downstairs, I
hear
them enforce their sentiments
on each other, cutting the other one off, no thinness
in their anger, their hatred for each other, yelling.
I wonder how anyone lives like that. She never sees
her son,
and I bet he doesn’t like her either. She is only a
neighbor,

I can’t imagine having her as a mother. A neighbor
next door, who owns her home, I hear
her son who is only a year older than my son,
screaming at his mother. Though I think it harsh, I
empathize with his sentiments.
He is a boy, his parents are divorced, they were
always yelling;
and his mother is an alcoholic. At least they don’t
live in our building, where the walls are paper thin.

The windows rattle, and a draft comes in through thin
openings where the windows don’t quite align. One
of our neighbors
(in this building) has newer windows. For the yelling,
we could all use some sound-proofing. Less to hear.
At times I am embarrassed by the sentiments
I share in anger at my daughter or my sons.

I have one daughter and two sons.
I hope for them that they make good choices that put
them on the path (it’s narrow)
to success. Their father shares my sentiments.
It would be nice if God gifted us some new neighbors.
I make the best of it while we’re here. I hear
the grass isn’t greener on another side where there’s
no telling.

My daughter shares my sentiments, and so do my
sons,
though they mostly ignore the yelling through the
paper-thin
walls (it doesn’t bother them). It would be wonderful
to have different neighbors; there’s no telling what we
might hear.

* * *

GRAB A SAMPLING
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Two beverages
fresh and ready
enough chocolate
to make one heady

pillows, cushions
pens and paper
smart phone handy
if brain becomes vapor

a cozy kitten named
Vernal Equinox
I just call her Verna
tho she never talks

a dog doll, one of
my favorite gifts
whenever I need it
my spirit it lifts

* * *

A List Poem from Carl:

 

 

 

MISSING BRAIN CELLS
—Caschwa

Some things I can do
especially well
and yet there are others
that never quite jell

Dancing, Conducting
Sight reading, Dictation
Oral presentations
and orientation

Long, long lists of
Dead Latin terms
Describing the garden’s
various worms

The millions of names
for all kinds of trees,
Animals, birds
Flowers, and bees

Geographic references
and odd foreign towns,
the many kinds of leaves
and uniquely shaped crowns

Sports trivia galore,
the newest postage rates
Any biblical references
Beyond those pearly gates

House roofs, my cousins,
Colors and mammals
One hump or two humps
on different camels

Inductive and deductive
Logical reasoning
How much is too much
of this or that seasoning

* * *

And an Ars Poetica from Stephen Kingsnorth:

 

 

 

THE NIGHT SAFE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

My mnemonics, acronyms, without the need for
waking note,
give peace and calm throughout the night, though
come dawn, what the meaning of what hangs from
hook,
deciphering the code that made sense last night,
or even bringing to mind there is a line to be
reeled in,
is mused mother, Greek goddess Mnemosyne.

Clef notes on spaces, lines or planet order, Henry's
wives,
periodic table, rainbow hues, taxa order, Mohs
scale,
wrist bones, cranial nerves, ukelele tuning strings;
polymath addict, if I have mnemonic, recall all,
whilst quangos, derogatory defined, as
agencies are under the collective noun.

____________________

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.) Why don’t you follow Melissa Lemay’s lead and try your hand at a Sestina? Warning—they can be addictive!

•••Sestina: poets.org/glossary/sestina AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sestina

•••AND/OR Taylor Graham is always writing Word-Can Poems; let’s try one using five words that I’ll “draw” for you: turkey, ceanothus, barbecue, corpuscular, and cheesecake. Hint: sometimes an alternative meaning of a word can make it work better for you.

•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

•••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 “Empty”.

____________________

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

•••Ars Poetica: www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/ars-poetica
•••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
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Sestina: poets.org/glossary/sestina AND/OR www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/sestina
•••Villanelle (rhymed or unrhymed): www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/poetic-forms-villanelle
•••Word-Can Poem: putting random words on slips of paper into a can, then drawing out a few and making a poem out of them

__________________

—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 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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Following the Leader

 —Poetry by Lynn White, 

Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Illustrations Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

FOLLOW YOUR LEADER

It’s so easy to be led,
to become part of the audience
to be seduced
by powerful words,
by the performance
on the stage where
leaders make followers.

Followers who will follow,
not herded like sheep
but running,
with the crowd,
trying to keep up,
seduced by the spectacle.

Individuals aren’t allowed
in the crowd
and don’t want to be there.
But, individuality
doesn’t have the warm glow
of follow my leader,
the togetherness,
the comradeship,
the shouted slogans,
the rousing tunes,
the ceremony.
It's for the few,
the one-offs,
the weird,
the misfits.

And where is the crowd
being led to?
It doesn’t matter.
They’ll go!



(First published in Harbinger Asylum, Fall 2017)

 

 

 

 

INTO THE SILENCE

Is the Pope a Catholic.
It is said so,
and a Humanist.
It would seem so.
Or just a human
speaking
out
into the silence
speaking of  “cruelty
not war”  in Gaza
and of “genocide”
there in Gaza,
speaking out
in a small act
of rebellion.
 
Is Joe Biden a Catholic.
It is said so
still.
The unanswerable question is
why
the Pope lets him be.
Why
he didn’t have a word in his ear
direct,
why
he didn’t use his power
to act where he can
direct
action
to excommunicate
the Catholic
arming this cruelty
blind to this genocide.

Such a small act of rebellion
speaking only
out into the silence.


(First published in Double Speak,  March 2024)

 

 

 

 

UNITED NATIONS

It was set up in the aftermath of war
to enable co-operation
to warn of catastrophe
to enable peace to be kept
and genocide to be part only of history.

Now it is condemned by its creators,
has become a pariah to those same states
who wrote its charter and envisaged its role
in leadership
speaking out
against oppressors
speaking out
against atrocities.

Still it speaks out
to its creators
who now feed the flames
of genocide
unitedly deaf and blind.


(First published in Double Speak, March 2024)

 

 

 

 



RIP JOHN DONNE

No man is an island wrote Donne
centuries ago.
He understood the predicament
understood
that man, or woman
is one part
of a whole
which is one part
of something larger
and so on
into mind-blowing infinity.

No man, or woman can stand alone
and reach their potential
in isolation
or when isolated
on some small island
however grandiose
the delusion.

An island alone cannot thrive,
except here in Britain of course,
so it was once said by some.

And now,
what now
when it stands
triangulated
in the centre
of three egos,
Trump, Putin
and Zelensky.
Stuck in the middle
of such super egos,
TPZ Keir Starmer.

(First published in New Verse News, March 3 2025)

 

 

 

 

THE LEGS OF MAN


It used to be Kelly,
Kelly from the Isle of Man,
my mother would sing the song.
But that was a long time ago.
Today I think it’s Keir
standing in salutation
then going round
on his three legs
saluting the flags.

One leg stands by Europe.
One leg stands by Trump.
One leg stands by Zelensky.
Three legs stand by Keir.
But it’s hard to walk
on three legs.

__________________

Today’s LittleNip:

A man who wants to lead the orchestra must turn his bak on the crowd.

—Max Lucado

__________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for her cogent thoughts about leaders today!

 

 

 

I need to know—is it better to lead from the front 

like a duck or from behind like a sheepdog?

 

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!