—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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
(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.
______________________
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.
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