Zapping The Cobwebs

 —Poetry by Claire J. Baker, Pinole, CA
—Public Domain Photos of Monet's Lilies

Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

A CRANIAL APP?

I need the latest for my brain—
through maze of cobwebs I admit.
Installed by one who’s clever & sane!
Quick, some new apps for my brain
so facts don’t falter, lose their cane.
As in a dizzy daze I sit.
I need some apps! Get ready brain—
through maze of cobwebs I admit.

 

 

 

 

AT SKYE SUMMER CAMP                   

No one posted a poem today,
but the camp’s eagle pair began
two lines on their first blue glide.

The beaver nudged out
the spirit of a haiku, placing
seventeen sticks in camp creek
crafting a reflecting pool.

Afternoon sparrows,
well into refrains, chirped out
part of a triolet.

Last night, bears began
sonnets in the forest,
leaving fourteen footprints
and ten scent-tagged pines.

No human
posted a poem today
at Sierra camp called Skye.

 

 

 

 

 

MODERN GODDESS

She’s practical as a frying pan,
charismatic as Cher, charming as
Jill Biden, expansive like Eleanor R.

Rejecting black holes and war
as senseless ventures for mankind,
she strolls among galaxies
and planetary gardens,
sprinkling angel dust
on her Peace Boutique
on Cloud nineteen.
 
Favoring southern amenities,
she sips double mint juleps
and banana daiquiries;
craves watermelon,
jambalaya, quilt-making
and rest in the hammock
hung in her own backyard.

Our Goddess takes courses
in compromise: will forgive,
but does not always forget.
Lady sings—not blues but pinks,
rings eventide bells and thinks
more of heaven than of hell.

 

 

 

 

AT PIER’S END
    Berkeley, CA

This sunset afternoon
while strolling the pier, a poet
and I revel in seeing the sun etch
flames through breaking waves.
Pal: waves crest and curl, golden
from the earth’s curvature.
I respond: the bay is electric,
this planet alive under our feet.
 
We keep strolling . . .
At pier’s end,
a tall wooden fence blocks
our westernmost view:
bridges, sky and beyond.
Through a gap in the grayed
boards we center the sun,
sip apricot brandy.

 

 

 

 

AFTER PRUFROCK’S LOVE SONG
            (apologies to T. S. Eliot)

Let us return, love, you and I, for sunrise
spreads marmalade across the sky.
And honeybees go hunting high and low,
humming for Fra Angelico . . .
I pull off my red dotted socks and rub
my wizened creaky toes. I adopt a persona
that will weather better for fancy teas,
while you make fun of our infirmities.

Worry, worry, losing our hair! Shall we
each wear a wig that’s not too sweaty or big?
Is it time to prime and paint the blue door red,
or let it age down to its own patina, instead?
Time to recount our waning years, sans fear,
oil again the gears, then light some flares?
We’re here, we’re here, we’re still here.

The afternoon awakens with a bang!   
Are we saying what we mean when at last
we’re out of bed? I’m making you an éclair,
presuming you care, Tomorrow, as able,
I’ll lay my arm on a nurse’s table, patiently await
a shot for flu and blank and blank that’s overdue.
How about you? Join me, my dear? Ah, yes
indeed, when home I’ll take a shot—
bourbon with seltzer will do, and do and do.

Meanwhile
  seems long ago, and yet the honeybees
    still go winging high and low,
      humming for Fra Angelico.
        Will honeybees hum for you and me?
            Shall we wait, love, and see?

 

 

 

 

THE DOG WHISPERER

1.
A young trainer
day after day for an hour,
runs a pack of abused dogs
along grassy hilltops.
No one wants these rejects
     for pets.

The rascals weigh the trainer’s
patience, his boundaries;
then the motley pack bounds off.
Alpha man quietly calls each name,
they all gather around him.
He strokes each scruff,
offers treats, hopes each  
       finds a home.
                           
2.
Some days I wish someone kind would
run me along a grassy hilltop,
acknowledge my lit chalice;
help ease early trauma,
If only this kind person would
       whisper, whisper, whisper
and I listen deeply, calmed to the core.

______________________

Today’s Little Nip:

BREAKTHROUGH
—Claire J. Baker             

We
arrive at
a clear pond
where
Monet’s
water lilies
float petaled
moons.

___________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Claire Baker for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that readers from
the VOICES 2025 anthology
can be heard in Camino
today, 2pm.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flying With Angels

 —Poetry by Royal Rhodes, Central OH
—Public Domain Artwork Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

BATHROOM ANGELS

I taped loosely above the towel rack
an artist's ornate card: "Obedience,"
in black-letter Gothic script on lace.

It bordered the framed and unframed
pictures I posed of nude angels, used
as my own ironic bathroom decor,

mirroring myself shifting my body
each morning over the lip of the tub—
contrasting fallen and ecstatic flesh.

The weight of renaissance anatomies
given them seemed so weightless,
as mine knew only gravity, not grace.

One floated on rainbow butterfly wings,
another lifted a jeweled, papal crown.
One stared and shyly covered their sex.

How else could anyone depict them—
pure being, pure mind—so startled
in looking out at my aging body.

The prayers I repeated to soothe them,
that made them not suddenly sing out,
asked: Who ever shed tears for a mind?

 

 

 

 

HAWK SHADOWS

Today the hawks
like yesterday float
over the open lawn,
hours after the dawn,
close and then remote,
a shadow over us.

Even blackbirds,
threshing the unmown grass,
suddenly have disappeared,
as I saw it pass
its shadow over us.

A treetop perch
where hawks had nested
was removed to open wide
the sky, when branches died,
while dread in me has never rested
with this shadow over us.

 

 

 

 

THE FALL

Early this morning I flew,
weightless just a moment
like an astronaut in training,
as I slipped, stepping out
of the warm shower into the cold
and my bad leg deftly skated
on the wet linoleum tile
as I barely cleared the slick tub.
I floated, spread-eagled
like a midnight jumper
from a burning apartment's ledge
into the firemen's waiting arms,
holding a stretched rescue net,
only now there were no firemen
and no net or doubled-up blanket,
just the hard, unforgiving floor
and the wall that stopped my head.
Lying there, aching in odd ways
even my new arthritis did not know,
I imagined my house a mausoleum,
where tourists, lighting scented candles,
would gaze at the legions of angels
whose colorful pictures I had posted,
my droll humor for bathroom art
on the walls discolored with mold.
Overhead the vent's mechanical chugging
and the sudden start of the furnace fan
sent a breeze, hot and cold, over me,
like the moment I was lighter than air.
Who would look with any pity upon
my 70-plus flesh, loosely curled
around the base of the toilet stool.
And no body could be lured by this body.
No winged cohort of rapacious eagles
would elevate such a fallen wreck,
ready for Charon who himself hesitates
to swamp his somber, reed-light boat.
I had no choice but to will to rise
and wait for the next falling to come.

 

 

 

LIFE ON THE EDGE
    a window cleaner's memoir

A call has brought us to the edge
of buildings: living on the ledge
as rare and wild as red-tailed hawks
that hunt the close-knit city blocks
and make the pigeons daily mourn
their cohorts freshly ripped and torn.
Like a harnessed marionette,
you bungee jumped without a net.
You caught—O blond angelic spy—
reflections in a city's eye,
windows of the soul revealed
what high rise dwellings kept concealed—
the mix of nakedness and gin—
that reinvented deadly sin
or what was deadly even more:
the blather braggarts used to bore
in bedrooms, locked behind a door.
The squeegee squeaks across the glass
and through the window you see pass
the protocols of loneliness
or acts of love that make a mess.
Conscience and remembrancer,
invisible, you dangle, sir!
Like Alice in the Glass we look
and see ourselves within a book.
Such secret lives that still perplex
now stand stripped bare at "Madame X".
So may your work for all to see
now wash us pure as Ivory.

 

 

 

ON A DIRTY GARTER: A PASSION NARRATIVE

You had stepped into a blue-white halo pulled like
    a wedding garter
in the photo's posed diction, drawing an elegiac gaze
    of a last poem

to fill the hungry eyes of youthful longing. At the
    ankle level
it would have pictured a prisoner's cuff, designed
    for your own

playful binding. Give me breath to take the ripe
    features to heart
—faltering—and for a split-second taste the salt
    ecstasies

in the sharp scent of electricity against skin. This
    seated nakedness
christ-like off the fruitful cross where it hung
    Sunday noontide

is silent long after the next-door theatre where sax
    jazz blew
to the ceiling at last finished. You led me, let me
    view slowly

down the legs, splayed right and left, to the turned
    feet, adorned
in grime, real earth, and there planted in the cold
    humus

that is our flesh. And now rising, Eros and loss
    ascend to that
earthly paradise you open in offering, as if un-
    tainted fruit

spared from the original garden for us to taste,
    and that
ripe skin becomes the best you have to wear,
    becomes light.

 

 

 

 

MYSTERY
     In the Gardens of Hadrian's Villa

Couples strolling look for hidden
   places others will not find
in the opulent botanical garden
   where radiant light is indirect.

There they see only the beauty
   in the white Roman hyacinths
older than the hybrid types
   gardeners plant in spike clusters.

The careless lovers do not see
   this living warning I bring
against becoming a god's beloved,
   loved beyond all mortals.

My body became root and stem
   and placed in a sacred story.
So many only see the eye-catching
   and then blinding loveliness.

All of me was transformed,
   as everything carries in itself
its own death, and some only that,
   before this last initiation rite.

The budding flower is not in me,
   but instead I am in the flower,
enfolded in overlapping petals—
   earth bursting in resurrection.

When at last you consider love,
   consider in me, consider
the speechless things it does:
   how light and rain will wound.

How can you keep my words
   from turning to cold marble—
without scent or a slight shiver
   showing what is still alive?

All this the heavens keep secret.

______________________

Today’s (Longer)Nip:

DRAGONFLY
—Royal Rhodes

A dragonfly had flown,
larger as it floated
nearer, through the door

left open so the dogs
could come and go to doze
outside, escaping heat.

It ignored my hand
I waved above my head
and landed on a ledge.

I had tried to save
it from the window, sealed
with plastic, framed in tape.

I meant to spare your life.
Your see-through wings should lift
you to a cloudy pond

or field of purple stems,
lavender with streaks
of white, and raw perfume.

But what would make you trust
my touch? Or choose to trade
your spot upon the ceiling?

I could not let you leave,
despite the tales I learned
of darning wicked lips.

But ransomed from this jail,
you  will become a jewel
upon my stitched-up heart.

_____________________

Newcomer Royal Rhodes retired after over forty years of teaching. He lives in a village in central Ohio. He loves to read poetry of all kinds and mystery novels. Welcome to the Kitchen, Royal, and don’t be a stranger!

_____________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Royal Rhodes

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that
Joshua McKinney and Cecil Morris
will read in Modesto today, 2pm.
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!

 

LittleSnake is always—
of course—an angel…!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dreaming of Acorns

 —Poetry and Photos by Taylor Graham,
Placerville, CA
—And then scroll down for
Form Fiddlers’ Friday, with poetry by
Nolcha Fox, Lynn White,
Stephen Kingsnorth, and Caschwa

 

 

DUA 6

entering the fire-scar, verdant new life

young oak, deerbrush, kitkitdizze for tea

*

one trail leads to meadow healing

one trail leads to river’s unburnable gold

*

from dark of the barn looking out

the meadow’s a world gone green

*

snowmelt’s just winter’s whisper

through summer willows

 

 

 

 Mural, Rescue School

THE FIRST ACORN

The
first
live-oak
acorn in
a dry arroyo
on an early Sunday picnic
makes me dream—a weekend never
truly ends if I
plant it in
my dreams
each
night.

 

 

 

TARWEED                   
    Madia elegans

Drab
brittle-
dry August
along the trail,
my dog trots head-high,
leading. What do I see?
Dead-weed field sparked by yellow tarweed—
Earth’s galaxies of tiny sun-flowers.

 

 

 

CONSIDERING CIRCUMSTANCES

That old tractor rusting in the ancient barn
has lost its compass, zip & zoom, its quest.
In out-to-pasture fields the grass grows wild.
Maybe we can readjust the steering wheel.

 

 

 

 Mural, Rescue School

LOOSE CHANGE

That jingling in my pocket
(forgotten vest I discovered in a drawer
the other day) ring of metal on metal
might be an old-fashioned
choke-chain—I don’t use those anymore—
we’ve got new, more humane
ways of telling a dog what’s what
and what we want him to do.
How things keep changing.
Or the jingle might be my keys—
who knows where
I’ll stick them when I walk the trail.
Pockets are a trick to launch
a game of find ‘em— too much stuff
for too many pockets. Change?
Stuff is always changing from where
I thought I put it to somewhere
else. My sunglasses? Oh!
they’re on my face.

 

 

 

 Otis

OTIS & OBEDIENCE
    53.5% GSD, 46.5% Siberian Husky
 
I have him on a down-stay. Exquisite!
But is it sustainable? I’m counting
seconds. He could erupt in a moment.
The wild’s in him despite months of training—
call of the wild, instinct bred into him
from his extinct wolf forebears & nurtured
by his feral Husky mother. His “look
of eagles” —German Shepherd heritage,
biddable eyes, attentive ears. What is
the subconscious driver inside my dog?
Whose command is he ready to obey?

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

NEW CONSTRUCTION
—Taylor Graham

“No Trespassing” fence
“Road Not Open to Public”—
Raven sailing thru

____________________

Taylor Graham and the intrepid Otis continue to explore the wild country with fine poetry and photos, and our thanks to them for that! Forms TG has used this week include some Duas (“Dua 6”); a Bell Curve Fibonacci (“The First Acorn”); a Haiku (“New Construction”); an Etheree (“’Tarweed)”; a Jueju that is a Response to Medusa’s Ekphrastic photo last week (“Considering Circumstances”); and some Blank Verse that is also a Word-Can Poem (“Otis & Obedience”). The Fibonacci and the Jueju were last week’s Triple-F Challenges, and “The First Acorn” was our Tuesday Seed of the Week.
 
Head on up to Georgetown today to hear TG read with the Thursdays at Two Poetry Group tonight, 5-7pm. Then, this Sunday, Poets and Writers of the Sierra Foothills will feature readers from Cold River Press’s 2025 anthology, Voices (with open mic), in Camino, 2pm. Plus, info about El Dorado Country’s regular workshops is 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 were Nolcha Fox, Lynn White, and Stephen Kingsnorth:


LEFT BEHIND
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

My new house was a run-down barn
that needed lots of work.

My friends thought I was crazy
and too old for such a project.

Yet in my dreams, this barn appeared
and gave me so much comfort.

I painted and installed new floors,
new wiring and new plumbing.

But I could never figure out
why this barn was important.

I cleared the land of overgrowth
so I could grow a garden.

Hidden in the weeds, I found
a beat-up, rusted tractor.

I began to cry because this is
where I left my childhood behind.

* * *

STARDUST
—Lynn White, Blaenau Ffestiniog,
North Wales


I saw stardust
in your eyes.
I caught it,
breathed it in
and felt its magic
transform me,
light me up,
give me wings
release my spirit.

I exhaled
to give something back
and watched
as your beard turned white,
I watched
as the paper grew blank.

My portrait was no more.
I was no more,
blown away
flown away
into blankness.

* * *

UNSCENE
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

Marooned and wounded marine beast,
once lunar module fairground ride
long past its prime, more frank, deceased;
or desiccated insect, eyes?
Adopt what stance—such mangled steer?

Patina read, a ruddy gloss—
contrast hard metal ’gainst tangled web—
straw scattered round old axle rods,
bleached planks as backdrop, knots so screened,
a palisade still timber framed.

Why were those tractors aways red,
avoiding rust e’en in old age,
rare fare for oxide seeking bed,
smoothed coatings, sweat through hard borne wear,
thick calloused flesh that treated it?

Did corns transfer from field to feet?
Was he amazed by columns, cobs,
wear wry smile at stretched spreading wheat,
pay peanuts as his workforce slogged,
make hay while watching barley, oats?

A blanket view where weevils grew,
were bolls nurtured from cotton buds;
soy sold for candy, milk, tofu,
tried sorghum for the celiacs,
exported rough, brown, long-grain rice?

Some traction from a laboured past,
the clapped out dumped with no applause,
machine outlasting working life,
a grave sight for those losing drive.
Here’s parking lot where scene forgot.

* * *

Caschwa (Carl Schwartz) writes: “Here is an experiment:  I tried combining elements of Blank Verse, Golden Shovel, Response, and Bell Curve Fib in one poem.”

 

 

 

BLANK, GOLDEN, RESPONSE BELL
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Hawk
soars
above
the cars
carefully
reflecting
but not acting
in response to
all those awful stares
except that awkward
polar bear skating
in circles on air
we’ll call him
Mr. Chuckles
and see
if that
takes
hold

* * *

And here is a Response Poem from Stephen Kingsnorth, in answer to Dan Brook’s recent photo:

 

 

 Poet Trees
—Photo by Dan Brook, San Francisco, CA,
Medusa’s Kitchen, Aug. 10, 2025, “Sharing”
(https://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/2025/08/sharing.html/)

POETREE
—Stephen Kingsnorth

A pinup drawing xylem sap—
unlike that fridge door magnet view—
attached to living cambium,
awaiting cork removal, tap,
release of proof in lively brew.

Thus is the verse rehearsed out loud
our words allowed with timbre sound,
each byte with bark, mark of our style,
a host, recorded, stored in cloud,
alone in crowd as wandered, bound.      

A weeping willow suited some,    
the diseased elm which shook my hand,
an alder, elder knew my age,
when needled, pine, plumbed sadness numb,
but oak, as acorn thoughts the brand.

These trees too know how spirit prompts,
their routes through phloem to canopy,
a stump when writers’ block prevails,
bough low to kowtow till cleared swamps,
and begging bole to write when free.

__________________

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.) Let’s honor daisies before their season is done:

•••Daisy Chain: poetscollective.org/poetryforms/daisy-chain

•••AND/OR another flower, the wee Florette:

•••Florette: www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/essence.html

•••AND/OR its longer sister, the Florette 2:

•••Florette #2: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/florette2.html

•••See also the bottom of this post for another challenge, this one an Ekphrastic one.

•••And don’t forget each Tuesday Seed of the Week! This week it’s “Moving Day”.

____________________

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
•••Dua (devised by Ai Li): a two-line poems with two spaces between each line, no periods and no titles
•••Ekphrastic Poem: notesofoak.com/discover-literature/ekphrastic-poetry
•••Etheree: http://www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/wip/etheree.html
•••Fibonacci (Fib) Poem: https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/fibonacci-poetry-a-new-poetic-form AND/OR https://www.poetryfoundation.org/articles/68971/1-1-2-3-5-8-fun
•••Fibonacci (Fib), Bell Curve: a Fib which is on top of another Fib where the original Fib pattern is reversed; see https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/fibonacci-poetry-a-new-poetic-form
•••Golden Shovel: www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form
•••Haiku: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/learn/glossary-terms/haiku-or-hokku AND/OR www.shadowpoetry.com/resources/haiku/haiku.html
•••Jueju: https://poetsonline.org/prompt.html
•••Response Poem: creativetalentsunleashed.com/2015/11/18/writing-tip-response-poems
•••Tuesday Seed of the Week: a prompt listed in Medusa’s Kitchen every Tuesday; poems may be any shape or size, form or no form. No deadlines; past ones are listed at http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/calliopes-closet.html/. Send results to kathykieth#hotmail.com/.
•••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.)

* * *

—Artwork Courtesy of Public Domain

 
 
 
 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Don’t forget
Forces of Nature, the reading
in Georgetown today, 5pm.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Coming Up Roses

 

—Poetry by Lynn White,
Blaenau Ffestiniog, North Wales
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

ROSEBUSH

Many offered a hand to set me free.
I told them to wear gloves
and to beware of the thorns
hidden amongst the blooms,
ready to penetrate their skin,
but no one heeded my warning,

they were enchanted
by the fragrance,
bewitched by the beauty,
the pastel pink delicacy
of petals pleading to be picked
and blind to the thorns
ready to pierce
ready to strike,

thorns as hidden as the worms,
the maggoty munchers
now metamorphosing
into manifestations
of new growth,
hands
ungloved
and unmarked
elegantly enticing them
to join me in the dark
unsettling heart.



(First published in Eccentric Orbits 5, Summer 2024)

 

 

 

 

ONLY A ROSE

It was only a rose I gave to you,
a pink rose plucked from the bush
carefully
by my own fair hand.

It was only a rose.
But I knew you loved roses,
loved each one more than the last
as you took them
smilingly
from my own fair hands.

The bush grew so many
roses and hands.
It seemed to know your love of them,
those pink roses
and my own fair hands
plucked to make you a perfect bouquet.



(First published in Alien Buddha Emo Valentine Zine,
February 2025)

 

 

 

 

THE REVERIE OF RENÉ MAGRITTE


Mr. James daydreamed of roses.
It was his recurring reverie.
Blousy pink roses
so clear
he could almost spell their fragrance
almost touch their pastel petals
a sweet dream
of pale,
pink roses.

It was the hands that turned it into a nightmare,
those pale fragile hands reaching out,
more and more of them
threatening
beckoning
cajoling
he couldn’t work it out,
couldn’t understand,
only knew he felt
fear,
fear day and night
a sleepy dread
of dreaming.


(First published in Gorko Gazette, July 2024)

 

 

 

ROSES FOR GAZA

Gaza is a garden full of roses.
Stone roses.
Rock roses.
No petals to crush and bruise
to release their fragrance.
Only dust.
Dust and the stench
of death.
No green space left.
No sweet tranquility,
peace or quiet.
No escape
in this world
of politicians
unable
to cast the first stone
in this world
of double standards
in this world
of politicians
with hearts of stone
in this world
where humanity
is reduced
to rubble and rock roses.


(First published in Stone Worlds,
Four Feathers Press, June 2025)

 

 

 

 

ROSIE

Can I be a rose?
Yes, I think so.
It’s my calling,
after all.
And I have pinkish skin
and rosy cheeks.
And I am as multi-layered,
as complex, as any
petalled rose
worth my name.
Yes, that’s for sure.
Is there a fragrance
on my breath?
I like to think so.
And will it be discernible,
sniffable,
rosily perfumed?
Yes, especially
in the moist evening,
but take care not to
disturb my roots,
to cut me off
and watch
me fade
away.


(First published in the Electronic Pamphlet,
February 2017)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

EARWIGS
—Lynn White


My neighbour was sweeping up.
“Beware of earwigs,”
she said.
“They go in through your ear,
crawl ‘round your brain
and tickle you to death.”

Her name was Rosie.
She cleaned trains for a living.
No earwig survived where she swept.
Fortunately not many travelled by train.



(First published in Trash, February 2020)

______________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Lynn White for these fine, rosy poems today!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that a workshop
with Lara Gularte,
Writing Words to Light the Way,
takes place in El Dorado Hills
today at 5:30pm.
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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Late Summer Radiance

 —Poetry by Linda Klein, Playa Vista, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

SUNFLOWERS

Standing tall on sturdy stems
in a long, milky white vase,
they sent out radiance
brightening the room
in the absence of sun
in my recessed apartment.

For seven days their petals
reached out to me.
I marveled at their heartiness
and deep yellow color.
Although cut from the ground,
they seemed alive still.

Cheerful circles of yellow fringe,
by the end of that seventh day
they began to bow and curl
inward one by one.
They gradually fell flat,
faces obscured on the kitchen counter.
By morning of the eighth day, I knew—

they had given me all they had to give.

 

 

 

 

NO ALTERNATIVE TO TRUTH

Truth
what we know in our hearts to be true
Truth
we see it in innocent eyes
Truth
bears out after we sift through old and new
Truth
clear yet solid is rarely a surprise

Truth
what we need to know to keep going
Truth
the righteous path to follow in life
Truth
reveals itself to those who seek to know it
Truth
a goal worth some sacrifice

Truth
in the stars that light up the night
Truth
the calm that follows a storm
Truth
the freedom for which we fight
Truth
must be our only accepted norm

 

 

 

 

MEMORY CHALLENGE

I never could remember numbers.
I don't like them, find them unpleasant
to think about, too precise.  There is
no room to imagine them another way.
With numbers, I feel trapped.

My mind was always drawn to letters.
Letters lead to words and names,
create images and take me on journeys.
Now I still see those images, but can't
always remember their names.

The words and names are stored
safely somewhere in my mind.
I strain to remember them,
but as hard as I try, I cannot.
When I stop trying, there they are,

dancing around, eluding me,
challenging me to relax, minimize
their importance. When I do,
they sheepishly reveal themselves.

 

 

 

 

FEAR AND LOVE

Fear of uncertainty
the unknown
or differences
is a feeling that can lead to hate
intangible
inhibiting
immobilizing

Combat fear with
reason
intention
boldness
love.

Love uncertainty
its mystery
excitement
possibilities.

To conquer fear
embrace it
become familiar with it
understand it
regard fear as a wily child
to be soothed by love
Never fear love.

________________________

Today’s LittleNip:

LET US BE SENSIBLE
—Linda Klein

There is chaos in calm,
seeds of shame in any psalm,
that can feed dissatisfaction
and spur us on to angry action.

When suspicion rules our thought,
we are feeling over-wrought.
It is wise to take some time.
Ignore disorder, stay sublime.

_________________________

—Medusa, with thanks to Linda Klein for today’s fine poetry and her end-of-season sunflowers!

 

 

 

For you, Linda, with our thanks!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting To Begin

 Time

 —Poetry by Joyce Odam and Robin Gale Odam,
Sacramento, CA
—Photos and Original Art by Joyce Odam

 

 

To where it all begins,

at some edge
of some dreamed sea—
some cove of blue that draws me there
to sit enclosed, to hide in the blue shadow
of the blue air and listen to the white cries of
gulls—watch the patient crawling of the waves
—the solitude of loneliness one learns to love . . .

or was it real—
only some composite of time spent
beyond the measured memory that thrills and fails.

I’m here—I’m there—walking toward this moment,
—who I am—under the wide imperfect sky that
fills with its vast moodiness, moving so darkly,
laying swift blue shadow everywhere—and
the white gulls that sound so anguished,
though beautiful and low—and I keep
them with me to become at least their
curiosity—never having left—no
matter how many cities later . . .

I knew this place
—as well as my life—it’s long
unreachable distance—this shore beside this sea.


—Joyce Odam

                                                               
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/22/16) 

 

 

 

 Untitled

PROMISES
—Joyce Odam

Mother, I will put you
in a poem
with long corridors
and years
and you will have
anything you want and need
and I will be there with you
forever, if you want me there
and we will be halfway
between young
and never old
and we will laugh
at funny things discovered
and you will have good eyes
and many books to read
and crossword puzzles
and I will never
argue with you
or try to have my way
and, Mother,
I will let you have
my calendar to mark upon,
the way you do
first thing each morning,
marking off the day arrived
and what it holds for you.

                              
(prev. pub. in Passager, Winter 1991;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 5/14/24)

 

 

 

 The Darkness Opens

THE MESSENGER
—Robin Gale Odam
After Van Gogh. The Postman. April 1889

At home it starts before the day,
the slow and careful rise from bed,
the bitter sip of compromise, the buffing
of the weathered shoes, the smoothing
of the uniform, the head-on scrutiny
at the mirror—

the proper incline of the hat,
the unreadable warmth of disregard,  
the straight and steady countenance,
and the one glance at the background wall,
papered with the scatter of mums in puce
on the landscape of the nameless green—
and the closing of the door.

The messenger delivers once again,
a professional portage of the news—

the night was long, the day was short,
the one is departed, the one . . .

                                  
(prev. pub. in Medusa’s Kitchen, 11/14/23)

 

 

 

 Theatre

FORGOTTEN SOUVENIRS
—Joyce Odam

long
after,
opening the

book,
dried leaves
fell out

and broke
like old
whispers

they were
stiff and brown
she could not

remember
why she
saved them

from
what moment
of what season

next time
she vowed
instead of tears,

for instance,
or some moment
meant to keep

forever in its joy,
she’d press
snowflakes

in her winter book
and leave no trace
to haunt


(prev. pub. in Acorn, Winter 1997
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 6/1/11; 8/4/15)

 

 

 

 Through The Meaning

TEARDROPS FALL FROM TREES
—Robin Gale Odam

i didn’t know this in my life but now
here they are—in the groves, in titles
and in the landscape of chapters and

footnotes—how a visual phrase, such
as fingers pressed over silver frets in
rosewood, could simply let them fall


(prev. pub. in Medusa's Kitchen 4/25/23) 

 

 

 

 Prayer Bird

TO WRITE YOU A LOVE POEM
 —Joyce Odam

Now do I speak to you from my art of silence,
my mind mute with longing,
words pouring out of my pen in new exertion—

oh, where
is the right one! You are fading from me,
even as my mind creates you.

Wait, Love—wait for me.
I have a thing to say to you—
something about want—something about need.

But language fails. I try a red pen, a blue one,
a dull pencil—to force the words—I stab
my mind for them—shake the gray thoughts

loose. You become vague—impatient—
turn toward the vast important window,
begin to hum.

I look at you from my broken pages,
scattered all around me, my serious shadow
crumpled in a pose of yearning.

I beg you . . .   I beg you . . .
here is my little written song, so unfinished . . .
so sorrowful . . .

you stand at the window, a radiant sheet
of white paper in your hands, an opening look
on your face—unreadable.

 

 

 

The Breath of Night Air

                                           
            
PLANTING CORN
—Joyce Odam

I want to write about the corn
but these hard kernels of dull gold
fail to remind me of
all I know about the corn…
     the way it listens in the summer for
     the wind that always finds it . . .
          the way it speaks
          and moves from speaking . . .
               rustle bend rustle rattle bend.

This wrinkled corn in my earth hand
cannot pretend to be
the finished product of my eye,
cannot acclaim itself that far . . .
     this dried up
     secret thing . . .
          with all its miracle inside itself
          in my cupped hand . . .
               waiting to begin.

               
(prev. pub. in In a Nutshell, Summer, 1979;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 9/30/14)

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

SHADE
—Robin Gale Odam

counterpoint of light
no one knows that she is gone
into dark of day
searching for a memory
searching for a memory

               
(prev. pub. in Brevities, December 2017;
and in Medusa’s Kitchen, 7/8/25)

____________________

The First Acorn: Our Seed of the Week, harbinger of the season to come. Many thanks to Joyce and Robin Gale Odam for these fine poems and pix today. “Shade” is a nod to those among us whose loved ones’ memories are slowly slipping into the shade.

Our new Seed of the Week is “Moving Day”. 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.

Be sure to check each Tuesday for the latest Seed of the Week.

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 “. . . at some edge of some dreamed sea . . .”
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that the
Community of Writers workshop
on Langston Hughes begins
ttoday online, 4pm.
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 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!