The Ambrosia of Poetry

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth

* * *

—Poetry by Stephen Kingsnorth.
Nolcha Fox, Caschwa, Joe Nolan,
and Thompson Emate
—Illustration by Nolcha Fox
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy
of Stephen Kingsnorth, Joe Nolan.
and the ever-resourceful Medusa

 

 

ALFRED MORRIS… WHO?
—Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales

There’s pudding rice, a UK brand,
and even custard in a can,
from Devon, homely county farms,
thatched rooves and cows out eating grass;
‘Ambrosia’, a world apart
from food of gods, Greek ancient myths,  
along with nectar, supposed drink.

Here lies connection to the bees,
their honey, bread that shares their name.
‘Immortal’ is translated term,
to be with complement it takes,
so far removed from tinned desert,
though being, pollen, hives play part
in wholesome image advertised.

Sap, fragrant juices, yet again
suspicion as where lies the blame;
hallucinogenic mushrooms,
a claim of experts in the field—
but true, where psychedelic lies?
And when awaiting custard, rice,
we have no clue why branded so.

So was Alf, founder, classicist?
His first, milk powder for the babes,
then Red Cross parcels in the war.
Olympus, flown by airmail doves,
the birds transporting food to gods
with many versions of that tale;
this pantheon, with Roman file,
says fabulous, but so confused.

 

 

 

 —Illustration by Nolcha Fox (with Microsoft Designer)

ODE TO A LESSER-KNOWN POO
—Nolcha Fox, Buffalo, WY

Wilbur was cousin of the famous Winnie.
His sweet tooth was out of control.
The bees caught poor Wilbur,
his paws in ambrosia.
Their stingers were raised in alarm.
They swarmed the robber,
who ran home to Mommy,
more lumpy than when he went out.

Oh, Poo.

 

 

 

 Ambrosia Salad
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

FUN & DISCIPLINE
—Caschwa, Sacramento, CA

Been a diabetic for several years
and have learned to keep my sugar
on an even level, no spikes, within
the range given to me by my doctor

Each year around Halloween I’m
able to buy a bag of “Fun Size” candy
bars, then I’ll summon up all the
discipline God has allotted to me in
this lifetime and devour one or two
of those little candies once in a while

Ambrosia Salad would normally not be
on the menu for me, but if someone
could fashion a “Fun Size” Ambrosia
salad, I’d be willing to give it a try,
once in a while 

 

 

 

 Gibbous Moon
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

PHASED
—Caschwa

(Shadows on Our Lives)

was hard to see the
wandering gibbons under
a waning Gibbous

 

 

 

 Digging Into the Dead Language
—Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Medusa

BAD SCHOOLING
—Caschwa

(Bedlam)

My father, who had served in
the military, told his sons that
if higher ups in the chain of
command had trouble spelling
or pronouncing your name, they
just referred to you as “Mack”
and let that be it.

Sure wish we could have used
that trick in public school. But
instead, they would teach such
complicated subjects as history
by forcing us to faithfully recite
different foreign words and terms
that exceeded the abilities of those
without photographic memories to
spell or pronounce correctly.

Some students could put on a mask
and gloves and make deep incisions
into the lifeless bodies of words from
the Dead Language, Latin, glean some
facet of history from that, and then
go merrily upon their way.

I, however, was in a group of kids
whose memories were just not wired
to do that. Maybe it was that traumatic
head injury suffered when I was a
toddler, way, way, light years before
medical science even thought to address
those issues with sincere studies.

Yes, I could name my city, county, and
state, and name the 9 planets, the old
serial comma rule, and recite my phone
number (Vermont 9-9999), but my filing
system for keeping names that originated
on other continents was nowhere to be
found. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

ANOTHER AMERICAN FAMILY
—Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA

Fading into form
With our ‘57 Chevy,
Children in tow,
Children so many.

Soon, we’ll be just shadows
Our children left behind
To fade into their own forms,
Their children left behind

With circles of friends
All kinds of loose ends
Vacation dreams of
Driving down the road.

“How long ‘til we get there?”
“How much longer can it be?”
Driving toward vacation dreams
In our ‘57 Chevy,
Just another American family.

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

SUNSET TOUR
—Joe Nolan

Going trough the chairs
Into plush velour,
Into cushy and comfy
For your sunset tour,

Driving to see the grand-kids
Who live pretty far away.
Seems like it takes forever,
But it’s only half-a-day

Spent on a highway, driving
With frequent stops to pee.
You see,
An old man’s bladder
Ain’t what it used to be.

 

 

 

—Graphic Courtesy of Joe Nolan

WHAT MUST BE DONE?
—Joe Nolan

Exactly what, where, how and when
Is a matter of opinion.
The controversy
At the heart of the matter
Is genocide:
Worth it or wobbler?

Genocide
Can’t be denied.
The only issue
Is justification.

Greed for land,
Hegemony,
Doesn’t get a pass
In the Twenty-first century.

We’d better take a look
At what must be done
To stop this evil
From happening. 

 

 

 

 —Public Domain Photo Courtesy of Joe Nolan

THE TALE OF THE SEVEN
—Thompson Emate, Lagos, Nigeria
 
Last night, in the record library, I heard a strange song. It was strange because it told a story—a story about how seven men entered Glory Land. The first man was troubled by the night; it spoke to him. He entered Glory Land and understood how this struggle made him a unique writer. The second man's mind was a turbulent sea; it often travelled beyond borders. He entered Glory Land and realised that this turmoil made him a sought-after counsellor. The third man's emotions fluctuated, especially at night. He entered Glory Land and discovered that this made him a talented music composer. The fourth man could summon the elements of nature, which sometimes disturbed his sleep. He entered Glory Land and understood that this ability kept him youthful and vibrant. The fifth man could hear conversations from neighbouring houses, which were more audible at night. He entered Glory Land and learned that this gift made him indomitable. The sixth man could see writings on the wall; they sometimes emerged and flew like birds. He entered Glory Land and realised that this helped him unlock the door to mysteries. The seventh man could paint scenes in his mind and bring them to life—this was a disturbing skill. He entered Glory Land and understood that this gift helped him save his loved ones. The song soon ended with questions: Do you think any of these men would want to hold onto their strangeness? Do you mind being like any of them?

_____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

TELL US STRAIGHT
—Caschwa

(Beyond Absurd)

they make a big deal
over the importance to
repent, but who pents?

_____________________

Our thanks to today’s resourceful poets for fine work, some of it on the theme of our Seed of the Week, Ambrosia. And welcome to newcomer Thompson Emate, all the way from Nigeria, and thanks to him for his prose poem! Thompson says he spends his leisure time on creative writing, particularly poetry and prose, and he has a deep love for nature and the arts. His work can be seen in Poetry Potion, Poetry Soup, Visual Verse, Written Tales magazine, Writer Space African magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Borderless Journal and elsewhere. He lives in Lagos, Nigeria. Welcome to the Kitchen, Thompson, and don’t be a stranger!

______________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

Thompson Emate

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A reminder that 

Poetry in Motion meets in

Placerville today, 10:30am; and
Sacramento Poetry Center
remains closed throughout
the month of August.
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!

 

 Ambrosia!